


Future Starts Slow

by abovetheserpentine



Series: Cruel Or Kind [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, F/F, Famous Harry, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Misunderstandings, Model Zayn, Musician Harry, Musician Liam, Musician Niall, Non-Famous Liam, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Solo Artist Harry, Songwriter Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 50,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9092362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: There’s something to be said, Liam thinks, about the way Harry looks at people. It’s razor-sharp, like you’re the only person who exists in the world. Liam had forgotten how it felt. Now, though – with Harry staring so intently at him – Liam realises exactly why he’d tried so hard to forget in the first place; it’s dangerous, this way Harry looks at people. But, most of all, it’s the way Harry looks at Liam that’s dangerous.Or, the year is 2018; Liam is turning 25, and Harry is a rockstar. They share a history.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [facewithaview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/facewithaview/gifts).



> For someone who doesn't ship Lirry religiously, I sure do write about them a lot. This will be a three-parter. Title is from the song by The Kills. This is for [Ivana](http://helladonut.tumblr.com), who helped me spiral into this ship head-first like the true friend she is.

**2013**

 

The funny thing about the whole ordeal is that Liam wasn’t ever going to turn up that night. Later, he’ll think about that fact, and how it might’ve made things a whole lot easier for him in the years to come. For now, though, he’s oblivious; as he has a tendency to be. When he meets Zayn eight months later, he’ll figure this out.

 _mate,_ the text from Andy reads, _you’ve got to come. this new kid is absolutely STELLAR! 100%. p sure he’s unsigned too. you 2 should start a band hah !_

Twenty-four hours from now, Liam will laugh dryly at the thought. As it is, he simply texts back a _???_

Andy texts back the name of the bar they frequent on Fridays, where it’s open mic night. Liam’s a drummer, not a singer, but Andy’s intent on having him spill his guts out (or maybe it’s sing his lungs out, Liam’s fuzzy on the details) to drunk twenty-somethings and jaded old men. Liam’s fought him off so far, but he still likes to check out the new talent and so he goes, even if it means he has to fob Andy off for the first half hour of every Friday night outing.

Despite the fact it’s Thursday, he decides he’s curious and so chucks a leather jacket over his maroon henley and faded black jeans, boots making the whole outfit suddenly a bit more biker than Liam usually goes for. He glimpses himself in the hallway mirror as he grabs his keys, running a hand over his new buzzcut and shaking his head at the unruly stubble he’s acquired over the past few days before leaving his flat with his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans and his phone warm against his chest through his jacket.

The bar’s a hole in the wall kind of place, something Liam and Andy stumbled upon by accident one night on their way to meet Andy’s girlfriend and her group. Ellie had been pretty pissed when they’d never turned up to meet her and her friends, but by that point Andy had been absolutely plastered and Liam hadn’t been much better, though he’d been sober enough to stop Andy from getting up on stage and embarrassing the two of them to the point of no return visit.

When Liam enters, he feels that familiar warmth settle over him. It’s a strange feeling, this belonging, but the bar is the epitome of it. Its lights are dim, and the wooden floors give it an old-timey feel. Regardless, modern furnishings litter the room, the bar sleek and new despite its wood exterior. The tables hold their own candles, bowls of nuts scattered around each one. The small stage sits at the back, and Liam arrives just in time for the melancholic guitar to turn into a tune, something haunting despite the introduction of the juvenile lyrics. At least, juvenile for the time – like the song was written a while ago.

The bar is surprisingly sombre, though packed to the brim. Liam’s not sure he’s ever been there on a Thursday, but he glimpses Andy and Ellie in a corner on the opposite side of the room to the bar. He makes his way as inconspicuously as he can toward them, weaving in and out of quiet patrons as they sip their drinks silently, entranced by the performance on the stage. Liam’s yet to look, and there’s something in him telling him that’s the right move... he suspects once he does, he won’t be able to look away. The voice croons, hopeful and yet mournful at the same time.

“Hey,” Liam greets his friends, wincing when it comes out louder than he intended. Andy jerks his head up in greeting, and Ellie reaches out to squeeze Liam’s forearm before returning her gaze to the stage, her eyes a little wet. “What’s going on?”

Liam’s whisper seems loud, though no one sends him a scornful look like they had when he’d greeted Andy just now. It’s not completely silent – it wouldn’t be a packed bar if it were – but the soft mumbling of the crowd is respectful, most of them too preoccupied with listening to commit too much to their half-hearted conversations.

“Just listen, mate.” Andy murmurs, and Liam raises his eyebrows but turns, moving closer so he can lean against the table the two of them are seated at. It’s high, so it pushes against his ribs uncomfortably.

“I'm gonna stay eighteen forever,” the singer intones, and Liam’s staring at him, trying to work this all out, endeared by the nervous tremble in the voice, “So we can stay like this forever. And we'll never miss a party ‘cause we keep them going constantly.”

He’s young, younger than Liam for sure though probably not by much. He’s got an acoustic guitar in his lap, and his ringed fingers are strumming the strings comfortably, like it’s an extension of his body and not a learned skill. His hair’s curly, curlier than Liam’s is when it’s not buzzed, and it’s falling in his eyes a little though it’s still short. There’s a ridiculous scarf tied around his head, as if to keep back the wayward locks (though Liam notes it’s not doing much). He’s wearing an oversized plaid shirt, something muted and purple. He’s donned the tightest black jeans Liam’s probably ever seen, and a pair of dark brown boots with a slight heel.

He’s everything Liam normally makes fun of, but somehow the husky, drawled tone of his voice has Liam transfixed. He’s got a friend with another guitar, although at the minute he’s not strumming it, instead providing backing vocals like an echo.

“And we'll never have to listen,” The singer turns his head to grin at his blond friend, who shares it, like he’s encouraging him, “to anyone about anything ‘cause it's all been done, and it's all been said.” A shaky breath, “We're the coolest kids and we take what we can get.”

He continues, his blond friend belting out raw backing vocals, the two of them working in conjunction to create something soft and real, like the fact they’re singing about being rebellious teenagers is a universal concept, a feeling everyone can find emotion in. Liam was possibly the most responsible teenager he’s ever known, and yet the song resonates through his bones, making him wish for the days of mindless snogging in his bedroom, driving around aimlessly at night simply because he was bored.

Liam might never have been in love, but the song is making him think that maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t the be all and end all of the teenage experience. After all, songs can be interpreted in many different ways.

“You’re just jealous ‘cause we’re young and in love,” the friend sings roughly to the singer’s lone guitar, repeating himself over and over like he’s trying to convince everyone of that fact. It’s a mantra that will embed itself into Liam’s brain for weeks after this night.

“You’re just jealous!” the two of them shout abruptly, finishing the song, and the mumbles around Liam turn into boisterous applause, wolf whistles and whoops accompanying them. The brunet grins, hair flopping forward into his eyes as he ducks his head in thanks. His rings glint in the firelight of the candles on the table, and Liam’s breath hitches.

It might not be the song that has Liam feeling so introspective, he realises, but he pushes that thought away roughly.

“Wicked, right?” Andy says, taking a large gulp of his beer. Ellie leans a head on his shoulder, and he has a strong arm around her waist. Liam wants to clear his throat, but refrains.

“Yeah,” he responds uselessly, and ends up clearing his throat anyway, “I’ll just grab a drink. You alright?” He gestures to the two of them and the drinks in their hands.

“We’re good, Liam.” Ellie tells him, smiling, and Liam returns it before pushing back through the people he recently walked past. The bar suddenly looks inviting, and Liam feels the dryness of his throat keenly.

“Thanks for that,” a voice sounds, and it’s jovial – not at all what Liam expected. With a frown, he turns his head to see he was right. The blond kid is speaking, a grin on his face, “Young Harry here wrote that one, drunk on a weeknight. Kind of like you lot!” The proclamation is received by enthusiastic shouts and cheers, and the two up on stage grin at each other.

Liam asks for his beer as he sees Harry, the singer, swig his own. The slight tremble of his hand betrays his nerves about being on stage, though his fingers grasp at the neck of the bottle familiarly despite the fact he must only be eighteen or so. Newly legal to drink, and making Liam feel vaguely uncomfortable. Liam may only be a month or two shy of twenty, but somehow he feels ancient when he looks at the way Harry’s dimples flash with every smile, and the youthful grace of his features as they settle into something a little more serious, eyes focused on his fingers moving across the fret after he puts his beer down.

This next song is slower, huskier, and Liam feels goosebumps rise on his arms. He takes his beer with silent thanks, gulping down a third of it quickly to get over the way Harry’s voice moves through his veins and leaves him a little hot, a little shaky.

“We drank wine in the matinee and the spotlight showed what it chased away,” Harry’s eyes are closed, brow furrowed in concentration. His mouth opens for the next lyrics, jawline cutting a handsome profile. Liam’s not as close as he could be; he can’t see the colour of Harry’s eyes or the length of his eyelashes; he can’t see the flush of Harry’s cheeks under the soft spotlight of the stage, or the sweat glistening on his upper lip. None of that seems to matter, though, with the way Liam can’t stop staring. “Stay for me.”

The blond chimes in with an egg shaker, the beat quickening.

Liam makes his way back over to Andy, who’s nodding his head to the egg shaker.

“She saw my comb over, her hourglass body. She has problems with drinking milk and being school tardy. She'll loan you her toothbrush, she'll bartend your party.”

Harry’s mouth lifts from the microphone, dark and alluring, and he bites his bottom lip as his head swings side to side with the beat, fingers plucking at the strings with relish.

His hums fade out the song, the egg shaker slowly stopping.

The applause is almost deafening this time, and Liam can guess why – the first song was good, but its tone and style a little dated. This song suited Harry’s mature vocals perfectly, and Liam’s almost stunned to remember he’s probably not even twenty yet.

The meagre earnings Liam makes as a stand-in drummer for local bands suddenly seems to pale in comparison to the free show Harry and his friend are putting on tonight. The kind of performance that leaves you breathless and begging for more is rare, and Harry seems to have nailed it. And if his voice didn’t do it, his chuffed, shy smile does.

Liam takes another long pull of his beer.

“This last one,” Harry starts, and Liam almost spits his beer over himself in surprise, not expecting the voice, let alone one so deep. His accent’s northern, and Liam realises he must be visiting London – or, at least, he’s moved here very recently, “is a cover. I hope you all like Rihanna.”

There’s a mixed reaction; some shouts of glee, and a few boos that Harry responds to with a rather amusing pout. Liam finds himself reluctantly charmed.

The next three or so minutes, he forgets about his beer.

“Fuck,” Ellie breathes as the final words trail off, and Liam wants to echo her sentiment, “This kid is _good_.”

“Can you pass him on to your boss, Liam?” Andy asks, as Harry packs up his set after the rigorous applause and drunken shouting of the bar, “I’d pay to listen to a whole album of that.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Liam explains feebly, but wishing it did. Liam would also pay for a whole album of that, though he won’t admit it. There’s something holding him back from singing Harry’s praises – whether it’s the way his mouth fit over the rim of his beer bottle, or the way his grin felt blinding, or the way his voice seemed so effortless. Liam’s not sure whether it’s a weird kind of jealousy that’s seized him, or an inexplicable disappointment. He doesn’t know what to feel.

“Glad you came?” Ellie asks a drink or two later, the stage now empty. Liam’s feeling a little looser, the stress of his day unravelling from his muscles with the help of the alcohol.

“Yeah,” Liam rasps, giving her a tired smile, “Needed to take my mind off of things. Another?” He adds, once he sees her take one last pull of her own beer. Andy’s talking to a guy behind him, torso twisted and the back of his long-haired head in Liam’s face.

“Just one,” Ellie explains, rolling her eyes at Liam’s raised eyebrows, “Not all of us get a three-day weekend.”

Liam huffs out a laugh but concedes, waving away the tenner Ellie tries to push into his hands and turning, wading through the thinning crowd of steadily more intoxicated people to get their last beers.

He’s waiting for the bartender to finish up with the girl next to him when he feels someone push into his side, a warm presence that doesn’t move away like it would if the movement had been an accident.

“Hello,” the warm presence greets him. Liam turns around, not really expecting it despite the recognition.

Harry smiles at him. They’re the same height, though Liam’s a little broader; his muscles less sinewy and more solid.

“Hello.” Liam replies slowly, for lack of anything else to say. He’s sure he looks goofy – mouth slightly parted, hair and beard unkempt, clothes thrown haphazardly on, eyes wide... not exactly the best first impression he could make upon someone whose voice makes him a bit shivery.

All Harry does is smile wider, though, his dimples making an appearance.

Liam’s helpless to it.

 

***

 

**2018**

 

“Zayn,” groans Liam from his friend’s bed, cold dread settling in his stomach like lead, heavy and unwanted, “can’t we just stay in and watch _Bake Off_ or something?”

Zayn rolls his dark eyes, perfectly tousled hair barely moving as he turns to shrug on a vest, a vintage band logo faded on the front. The black of it matches his beard, neatly trimmed, and makes the tattoos on his arms especially stark and mesmerising. Liam snaps his gaze up at a shove from his best mate.

“You’re an idiot,” Zayn tells him, his accent completely missing the final letter and making it sound like he’s trailing off hopelessly. Liam knows better, though, and simply huffs. “How do you expect to fix this writer’s block if you lock yourself away?”

Liam refuses to acknowledge the real issue, which is the fact that he doesn’t have writer’s block. In fact, he has nearly the opposite problem. But Zayn doesn’t need to know that – he _can’t_ know that – and so Liam just frowns petulantly, still hoping he somehow manages to squirm his way out of attending what’s sure to be a painfully pretentious industry party. He might be dressed and ready to go in theory, but Liam’s not at all ready in practicality.

Zayn raises an expectant eyebrow. “Why are you dreading this so much? C’mon, Liam.”

Zayn’s urging does nothing to loosen Liam’s lips, but it’s bringing up thoughts he’d much rather forget about and so he scowls, his face twisting into something uncharacteristically ugly.

Zayn simply rolls his eyes and stuffs a cigarette pack into his back pocket. His phone blares, the default Nokia ringtone sounding before Zayn picks up with a perfunctory greeting.

“Car’s here,” he announces as he hangs up, grabbing at his leather jacket and shoving his phone in an inner pocket, “We’re going.”

Liam’s still grumbling when they enter the party, names signed off at the door to a very burly looking security guard. He’s still unfamiliar with the process, more used to house parties and the way they so often resemble an orgy by the time he gets there. Needless to say, he never stays very long. Zayn’s group of model friends are a little wild despite their niche market; some kind of short model campaign that someone scouted Zayn for – his Instagram following has always been astronomically high. So although the models may not be classically tall, they make up for it with their insane amounts of beauty and what Liam likes to call their ‘height complexes’ – or, absolutely intense personalities. Liam would never describe Zayn as loud, but he’s an intense person – in both feeling and ambition – so he fits right in.

This night is different, though – Zayn starred in the music video for one of the artists, someone Liam’s not entirely familiar with, and so the crowd is less orgy-inclined and more philosophical conversations over weed inclined. Liam doesn’t mind, it’s been a while since he’s been high. But all anyone can seem to talk about anymore is _him_ , and Liam kind of needs a break. Between Sophia and Eleanor at work, and Louis at home, he just wants everyone to be quiet about it for an hour. Preferably a day but at this rate he’ll take an hour.

So whilst this party might be more his style, more Liam’s vibe, he knows the conversation won’t be. Hence the dread.

“A couple of drinks will help you relax,” says Zayn as they approach the in-house bar. These parties are getting fancier and fancier, and Liam knows he has Zayn to thank. He’d be stupid not to attend these things, especially when Liam glimpses Pharrell across the room. He’s not going to approach him – Liam rather values his dignity – but if Pharrell is here then that means there are producers, and sound engineers... the kind of people Liam needs to talk to.

He orders something boring, some kind of alternative cider, and lets the crisp drink wake him up. It’s not even ten o’clock yet but Liam somehow feels a bone-deep exhaustion settle within him.

It’s alright, for a while. The cider loosens his muscles but not his tongue. Zayn doesn’t seem to mind – he’s partial to comfortable silences – but he attracts people wherever he goes, and so Liam’s introducing himself to model after obscure musician after model. He’s feeling vaguely unattractive in his black jeans and button down, boots suddenly big and clunky instead of comfortable and sturdy. It’s par for the course, however, so his discomfort almost feels normal. Zayn nudges him in the side after his third cider goes down a treat, smirk on his face. Liam rolls his eyes, a smile growing on his lips, before his friend announces he’s off for more drinks.

Liam’s content to linger by the DJ after Zayn leaves, noting the way the girl’s interspersing Drake with some Justin Bieber and reluctantly nodding along to the beat.

His drink’s finished, and he looks around to deposit his empty somewhere unobtrusive. He’s turning away from the DJ table, searching, when he sees him and stops short.

He’s laughing raucously, head tipped back in mirth, mouth wide and smiling. His long hair falls in curls down his shoulders, thicker than Liam remembers. His jaw is sharp, and his lips are _so_ pink.

Liam spins away quickly, though his eyes can’t help but stray. His stomach is churning and he’s biting at his bottom lip so hard that it feels tender and sore within the minute. Vaguely, he registers that suddenly Zayn is back at his side and that he’s brought a friend, a blonde woman who looks somewhat familiar; but Liam can’t really focus on that, not when his every sense has zeroed in on–

“–Harry Styles. He’s an absolute shoe-in. I mean,” The blonde woman adds at Zayn’s raised eyebrow and whatever expression is on Liam’s face right now. His skin feels numb, and he’s not entirely sure what his limbs are doing. His eyes, though, are right on target. “His last album broke records worldwide, and his tour rolled in the big bucks. If his next album doesn’t get a Grammy, I’ll eat my hat.”

Dimly, Liam notices she’s not wearing any headwear.

“Liam?” Zayn prompts him, and he snaps his gaze away from the way that red mouth curls around a spiral straw, tongue peeking out briefly to capture the offending thing.

“Sorry?” Liam rasps, clearing his throat soon after to rid it of whatever his memories have placed there. They’re old memories, but that doesn’t mean they’re any less vivid; a ringed hand cradling his jaw, making the ache in Liam’s knees disappear; curious lips hovering over Liam’s bicep, smirking when he startles at a small, precise nip; a reverent exhalation of his name, unforgettable even on Liam’s worst nights.

“What are you thinking?” asks Zayn, and Liam looks to him distractedly. The blonde girl is staring at him blankly, standing a little closer to Zayn than is probably necessary for the space. Zayn’s frowning at him, his brows looking menacing despite his fine features.

“Excuse me.” Liam mutters, finally placing his empty bottle on a nearby surface with an unexpected sort of calm, ignoring the surprised look on the blonde’s face to brush past the two of them and go searching for fresh air.

 _This can’t be happening. This can_ not _be happening._

 _But it is,_ a snide voice answers, and Liam clenches his jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pushing through some people he doesn’t know, mumbling apologies, “Fuck, fuck, _fuck–_ ”

And he should have known, really. He should have known his body would betray him, take him in the exact direction he wanted to avoid if he wasn’t paying attention. But somehow when he’s abruptly shoved into the back of someone by a disgruntled guest, and that someone then turns around, he’s still surprised to see Harry Styles smile hesitantly at him.

“Shit,” utters Liam, palms sweaty, his face beginning to flush red, “Sorry.”

There’s a stagnant moment that he’ll reflect upon later, where Harry’s mouth opens to say or do something, just before Liam shoves his hand out.

“Liam Payne.” he introduces himself, ignoring the voice shouting at him inside his head.

Harry’s smile flickers a bit in surprise – most likely at this strange encounter; an unknown man running into him and then deciding to introduce himself – before it becomes brighter. He grasps Liam’s hand in his own, big and warm, and Liam’s eyes rove over it hungrily, taking in its unfamiliar width now that Harry is five years older and very much a man.

“Harry Styles.” Harry announces, like Liam wouldn’t know who he was without it. Liam wants to roll his eyes but his breath is caught in his chest and he can’t seem to let go of the vice grip he’s got on Harry. Funnily enough, Harry doesn’t seem fazed.

After a few more seconds in which Liam doubts his own sanity, he finally releases the hand in his grip and lets his own hang limply back by his side.

“So,” Harry starts, a twinkle in his eye that makes Liam’s stomach clench in nerves, “What brings you here, Liam?”

The people Harry had been talking to wait for an answer as well. It almost feels like Liam’s in primary school again, in front of the class as the new kid and telling them he’s moved from Wolverhampton and that he has two older sisters called Ruth and Nicola.

“Err,” he stutters hopelessly, his mind whirring, trying to come up with some kind of explanation that isn’t ‘my friend dragged me here’.

Instead, someone comes barrelling into Harry, nearly making him stumble over. He’s got short hair, dark, styled into a quiff. He’s sporting a huge, drunk smile, and Liam recognises him.

“You know this lad, Harry?” Nick Grimshaw says, shoving a tall cocktail into Harry’s hands – _those_ fucking _rings_ – and peering curiously at Liam.

“We’ve just met,” Harry tells him, and the coldness that was beginning to seep into Liam’s chest encompasses it completely. Well. That’s that, then. “Liam was just about to tell us the sure to be scintillating story about what’s brought him to this dull party.”

Nick Grimshaw, one of the hosts of BBC Radio One and obviously a friend to Harry, narrows his eyes before turning to Liam with an expectant expression.

“It’s not dull.” Liam says weakly, not wanting to ruffle feathers. Though it feels like he might suddenly be the nerdy kid, made fun of for liking something everyone else hates.

“Hah!” Nick crows, and Harry raises an eyebrow, looking to Liam with an amused glint in his eyes, “ _See_ , Styles! This is a rager, I’ll have you know.” He pokes Harry in the chest before turning to Liam, “Liam, was it? I like _you._ ” And then he’s pulled in by the lapels of his leather jacket, huffing out a breath when he hits Nick’s side and Nick’s arm comes up around his shoulders.

“What do you do, Liam?” Nick asks him, and Liam desperately wishes for another drink, something to ground him to the here and now and stop him from staring shamelessly at Harry.

“I’m, err, I’m a drummer.”

“A drummer!” Nick explains, and Liam’s brows raise in surprise. Nick Grimshaw’s exuberant on the radio, that’s for sure, but Liam didn’t honestly expect him to be like this all the time. That would take too much energy – more energy than Liam could give in only an hour or two, honestly. “That’s awfully attractive. And look at this!” He pulls his arm away from Liam’s shoulders to grip his left bicep instead, “Drummer’s arms. Yum.”

“Alright,” Harry interrupts his friend, laughing, “Maybe hold off on the vodka and limes, Nick.”

“Excuse _you_ ,” Nick says, forgetting Liam’s biceps even if he’s still rhythmically squeezing them. The rest of their social group has turned in on themselves, obviously used to this kind of spectacle, so it’s simply the three of them. “I’ll have as many lodka and vimes as I want.”

Harry’s grinning, now, biting his lip to hold it back as his eyebrows reach up toward his hairline.

Meanwhile, Liam’s trying to think of how he can extract himself from this conversation, run from the room, and go home. Maybe to sleep away the next week.

Because for all that Harry’s sharing commiserating looks with Liam, for all he’s smiling and happy and friendly, for all he looks stunning and sure of himself... for all of that, he doesn’t know Liam. He doesn’t _remember_ Liam.

Which is preposterous, because sometimes Harry is _all_ Liam can remember.

He’s edging away, slowly pulling Nick’s hand off of his arm, when Harry rolls his eyes at Nick – who’s talking about how he might just have _double_ vodka and limes, now, thanks to Harry – and turns more fully to Liam, meaning Liam has to pretend like he wasn’t just trying to sneak away.

“Tell me,” Harry starts, the kind of tone that means he’s about to start an in-depth conversation with Liam, “What are your thoughts on nautical tattoos?”

And so he’s left talking to Harry about tattoos, and all the ones Harry has, and how Liam only has a few but doesn’t know whether he’ll ever commit to a full sleeve. It’s surreal, is what it is, because Liam’s dreamt of something like this for years and the fact that it’s happening is sort of unbelievable. Nick, thankfully, doesn’t leave them. Liam’s not sure he could stand to be at the mercy of Harry’s sole attention. His eyes are just as piercing as Liam remembers, but the green of them is clearer than Liam recalls (he’d been imagining a mossy green, refusing to look at posters or pictures on Google). Nick’s a helpful buffer, even if he is spectacularly drunk. Liam steals his vodka and lime from him, and he spends the next twenty minutes of conversation attempting to locate it before he gives up and goes to get another one, returning with what looks just to be a coke to Liam. He probably got denied by the bartender, even if he did hire them himself.

Liam’s sweating, still, panicking internally, and his gut feels woozy. He’s settled into a calm, though, a panicked calm that allows him to think rationally despite the extreme emotional stress he’s under. He even finds himself giving a strangled laugh when Harry mentions going to a tattoo parlour together to decide on their next ones.

Liam’s not an idiot, despite what Zayn tells him weekly, despite the fact Louis rolls his eyes and mutters it under his breath on a daily basis. He might be silly at times, he might be too uptight, he might be a little oblivious to all of the things going on around him, but he’s not _actually_ an idiot. So he doesn’t miss the way Harry’s eyes linger a beat too long on Liam’s mouth, or the way Harry’s moved a tad too close for someone like Liam, someone who’s not interested in pursuing his particular line of thought.

Instead, Liam shifts back, rubbing at the back of his neck nervously and avoiding Harry’s eyes as he talks about Zayn’s own tattoo designs, and how his friend had fancied himself a tattoo artist at one point.

“Are they any good?” Harry asks with interest and moves his head closer to Liam, who clears his throat nervously, “Have you got any pictures?”

“Well– hang on, I might.” Liam cuts himself off and realises he just might, with a frown, and pulls out his phone. Harry moves to his side and Nick is nattering on about Zayn’s pretty face as Liam pulls up the photo, Zayn’s mandala tattoo red and raw and new on his skinny hand.

“That’s beautiful.” Harry breathes, and he brings up a hand to cradle the phone, resting it on top of Liam’s own. Liam’s palms start sweating again, and it’s honestly a miracle that the phone doesn’t slip through his fingers, though he supposes Harry is helping with that.

“Yeah,” Liam croaks, and coughs to hide it, “Yeah,” he continues a little more clearly, “it is.”

Harry’s close, the scent of his cologne smooth and masculine, the warmth of his side entirely distracting.

“Anyway–” Liam starts, but then Harry barrels through whatever Liam was going to adlib.

“D’you mind if I get your number?” Harry asks, and he flicks his eyes up to Liam’s, lashes dark, hair falling in his face, before he glances back down at the picture. “I’d love to see more pictures.”

Liam swallows thickly, his mouth dry and his eyes wide.

“Don’t you want Zayn’s?” Liam manages to ask, brain frozen on the way Harry’s striped shirt is so far unbuttoned Liam can see the hint of a tattoo below his sternum, a tattoo he can’t remember touching or kissing or licking or _coming on_ –

“I don’t know Zayn,” explains Harry simply, tilting his head a little, “I know you.”

_No, you don’t._

“Well– right.” Liam answers haltingly, and he’s not entirely sure how he’s answered, only that Harry continues to smile at him, his dimples flashing and making Liam’s heart skip a beat.

“Great!” He exclaims, and gently pries the phone the rest of the way out of Liam’s hands. “I’ll just text myself, shall I?”

He pushes the phone back into Liam’s hands after a few minutes of concentrated silence, and Liam glimpses the name Harry, a banana emoji nestled next to it, before he habitually locks his phone.

“Liam,” Nick breathes into the side of his face, and Liam jumps in shock, “Liam, Zayn’s number.” A clumsy finger comes up to tap on Liam’s phone. “Zayn.”

“Right,” Harry begins, and – blissfully, finally – he moves away from Liam to gently take Nick’s wrists and save Liam’s phone, “I think it’s time I put the host to bed.”

Nick’s mumbling protests, but the way he’s slumped into Harry suggests it’ll be easy to drag him to the bedroom to sleep despite what he’s saying.

Before the two leave Liam alone, though, Harry looks at him over his shoulder.

“Talk later, Liam, yeah?” He assumes, and leaves.

Liam’s staring after him, stunned.

It’s been five years, and the way Harry Styles can leave him breathless hasn’t changed. Liam feels like he’s been slapped, like he’s been doused in ice cold water, like nothing makes sense anymore. Because Harry doesn’t remember him, doesn’t _know_ him, but it seems like maybe he wants to.

“Shit.” Liam sighs, and goes to find Zayn.

 

***

 

The dawn of a new day does nothing to dim the growing panic inside him.

“What’s up with you?” Louis questions, observing Liam’s fidgeting limbs and barely touched tea at breakfast. Luckily he only has a meeting later today with the band instead of rehearsal, so he can panic without ruining his career. Although at this point Liam would welcome the distraction of Sophia and Eleanor’s continuing row.

“Nothing,” Liam croaks, then clears his throat quickly at the sharp look Louis shoots his way as he opens the fridge. Liam takes a sip of his tea, hoping to distract. “I mean, what do you mean?”

Louis narrows his eyes a little, shrewd, before giving a small shrug and turning to mix his Coco Pops with his Frosties, the milk nearly overflowing onto the counter and making Liam’s eye twitch.

“Don’t wait up for me tonight,” Louis tells him, leaning against the counter and scooping mouthfuls of his cereal mix into his mouth. He seems to be giving Liam a reprieve, though a voice at the back of Liam’s head knows it’s only a matter of time before he’s interrogated by his roommate. For now, he’s simply relieved. “I’ve got a thing.” He flicks his hand away from him like whatever he’s got to attend is inconsequential and boring – which, in the language of Louis, generally means it’s probably something staggering that he refuses to talk about. Liam would usually prod and probe, but... well, he’s rather preoccupied. And hoping to avoid attention.

Louis leaves an hour later with another narrow-eyed look, so Liam’s left alone with his thoughts – staring at his ceiling from his bed like it’s going to reveal the world’s secrets to him.

Because that’s what it feels like – it’s like the world, or the universe, or whatever it is; it’s like it wants Liam to run into Harry again. But the question is _why?_ Does it enjoy watching Liam suffer? Does it enjoy watching Liam run around like a headless chicken as he tries to avoid Harry? Because that’s what it feels like. It’s almost as if this other power deemed Harry’s face on posters around London and his voice emanating from Liam’s radio as not enough. Like Liam deserved more torture, like it wanted to watch Liam go white at every mention of a Harry, or a Styles, or the words ‘cruel’ and ‘kind’.

Liam’s right on the edge of possibly texting Harry – maybe asking him to _fuck off_ and _leave him alone_ – when he realises there’s only two people in the world who can help him right now, and of those two there’s only one that’s not going to laugh in his face.

So he calls Ellie.

“Hello?” She says, breathless into her mobile. Liam frowns, knowing she’s most likely at home because it’s a Saturday and Andy plays his weekly rugby game on Saturdays in February.

“Els,” Liam sighs, suddenly forlorn, “Do you have a minute?”

There’s a pause, like Ellie is considering the question, before she gives him the affirmative.

Liam doesn’t answer for another moment.

“Wait,” He says slowly, “What were you doing?”

“Err–” Ellie begins, before Liam pulls a face and interrupts her.

“Ugh, Els. Really?”

“What?” She snaps, and he can imagine her with a hand on her hip, glaring at him, “It’s healthy, and I’m an adult.”

“Right,” Liam tries to amend hastily, suddenly sweaty with nerves, “Of course. No, you’re right. Female empowerment and all that.”

Liam cringes, knows he’s put his foot in his mouth but hopes he’s going to receive some sympathy in the next few minutes because he’s _coming apart at the seams_. He barrels on before she can yell at him.

“Look, I just–” How does he even phrase this? “I sort of... well, I ran into Harry last night.”

“Harry?” Ellie echoes, and he can hear the confused frown over the line, “Who?”

“Harry,” Liam whispers fiercely, looking behind him to his bedroom door like Louis is about to pop out and tell him he’s an idiot for keeping Harry a secret all this time, “From... from Borderline?”

“Borderline?” Ellie scoffs, and he hears the clang of their pantry door close – she’s probably getting a snack which is what makes Liam antsy, like he’s her form of entertainment or something, “Liam, we haven’t been to The Borderline in years.”

“I know,” he says, closing his eyes against the impatience rising within him, “I know.”

Suddenly, he’s hit with a wave of exhaustion. It’s not _Ellie’s_ fault that she can’t remember. It’s not _her_ fault she can’t connect the dots. She’s not the one who’s been pining over a frankly amazing shag she had five years ago. No, that’s all on Liam. Harry is barely a blip on her radar – she likes his music, sure, but when he came onto the scene in a proper way, Liam never fully explained why he’d leave the conversation once someone started talking about his debut album. Liam never fully explained that the guy he’s been upset over is the one and only Harry Styles, verifiable rockstar and subject of many people’s wet dreams.

“Liam?” Ellie’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and Liam clears his throat, though it still prickles with unease.

“Yeah,” He answers, “I’m here. I just–” Another clearing of the throat, “I’m going to tell you something, and I kind of need you just to listen.”

“Alright,” Ellie says, and he can hear the crinkle of a bag of crisps drop onto a hard surface, like he’s finally caught her attention, “Have at it.”

“Do you–” He starts, then frowns. His brow hurts with how deep it is, but he can’t seem to scratch the expression off of his face. “About five years ago now,” Four years and nearly six months, “We went to Borderline for some drinks.”

“Yeah, Liam,” Ellie says softly, and the change in tone makes his eyes close, slow and measured. His heart gets heavy, and he knows he’s more than likely going to cry during this conversation, “We went there every week. Every Friday.”

“Right,” he agrees, and pushes through because he wants to see the end of this now; he’s ready to be done, “But this was a Thursday. Andy told me to come because there was a musician there who was pretty damn brilliant.”

Ellie seems to take a moment to process that, trying to remember what Liam’s talking about.

“He was young,” Liam says, thinking of curls held back by a headband, of a purple plaid shirt twisted and unbuttoned– “He had a friend. Irish.”

There’s another loaded silence.

“He did a Rihanna cover–”

“Oh!” Ellie bursts out with, and Liam knows he’s got her, “I _do_ remember! And he came over, started talking to us, talking to _you_ – oh...”

Liam clenches his jaw, fighting against the stinging of his sinuses, the sweat breaking out on the back of his neck, the way ghostly fingers brush his cheekbones.

“His name was Harry,” says Ellie, and it’s not a question, but a realisation, “Liam, wasn’t that–”

He doesn’t have to tell her. She’s probably imagining it now – how Harry had looked then: similar, though younger. Still a head of curls, still those bright green eyes, those dimples, the pink lips, the stubborn jaw, the way he charmed everyone with a mere greeting... she’s probably remembering the way Harry’s hand had stuck itself to Liam’s hip, how Harry had hovered close and intimate, how he and Liam had left together with a knowing glance from her and Andy. She’s probably remembering everything, and Liam envies the fact she forgot at all.

“Okay,” Ellie concludes, like she’s run through the same thought process as he has, “You ran into him last night. What happened then?”

And this is why he called Ellie, not Andy. Andy’s been his friend since they were in high school, the kind of friend he got closer to once they left – but Andy would have brushed Liam off, or not remembered at all. Ellie, though Liam only met her through her boyfriend, is the kind of friend to not only remember, but not judge Liam for the fact he’s been hung up on some guy from five years ago who just happens to be famous now.

“Nothing... nothing good,” Liam chuckles darkly, pinching the bridge of his nose like it will stop the burn of his eyes, “He doesn’t exactly remember me.”

“Fuck,” Ellie utters, and he can hear her sit down heavily, probably on their bed, “That fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” The burn eases a little, though it’s more like it’s on the backburner than it’s completely gone, “It really did.”

“What a prick,” she proclaims, like that says it all. And it would, if Harry weren’t _Harry_ , “I hope you gave him a piece of your mind.”

He and Ellie both know he didn’t, that he wouldn’t. But he’s grateful she said it anyway, like she has the faith that maybe he might just do that, that he might stand up for himself one day instead of run away from all of his problems.

They sit in silence for a bit, and Liam’s not sure how he’s meant to go on from there. He’s said his piece. He’s done. Now he just needs to know what the hell he’s meant to do, because he can’t figure this out. There’s no right way, there’s not even an easy way. Any decision he makes about this he’s going to regret.

“He asked for my number,” he blurts out, wincing, “I think... I think he was trying to pull?”

“Liam,” Ellie starts, and the stern tone of her voice makes him want to hang up, to bury his phone underneath his pillows and forget the last 24 hours ever happened, “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” he exclaims, gesturing wildly even though his friend can’t see it, “What was I meant to say? ‘Hey, this is really awkward, but we actually slept together five years ago. And you know what? I’m still not over it!’ That’s not exactly scintillating conversation!”

“Who the fuck cares about _conversation!_ ” Ellie scolds him, and he imagines that if she were a lesser person she’d probably be screaming at him, “That’s fucked up, what he did. You were– you’re _still_ not okay about it! So you owe him nothing, Liam, alright? In fact, he owes _you_ a fucking apology. I don’t care what he thought you two were doing, or what he expected – you don’t fucking leave someone high and dry in _your own apartment_. That’s not on. That’s not on at all.”

“I know,” Liam says helplessly, and he squeezes his eyes shut, a kaleidoscope of lights imprinting on his eyelids, “It’s been– it was shit. I _know_ that. But I can’t, Els. I couldn’t.”

“Do you want my advice? Well, I’m going to give it to you,” She doesn’t bother stopping to let him answer, “Block him and delete his number from your phone. Consider this your closure. He’s that much of a dickhead that he didn’t even remember. You don’t need someone like that in your life. You’re worth so much more, Liam – you _know_ you are.”

Liam bites his lip, eyes still shut tight. That’s... that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because Liam knows... he knows that maybe he’s not? It’s a half-formed thought, the kind he’ll shove under the covers and not look at for years until he’s reminded, at which point he’ll glimpse it before doing the exact same thing again. It’s the kind of thought that Liam’s whole personality is based on, but it’s far too frightening to look at too closely. Liam’s going to push it away like he did five years ago, and he’s going to hope it takes longer than five years to crop up again, unwanted and bleakly truthful.

“Yeah.” Liam says, and he knows Ellie takes it as agreement.

“Alright,” she sighs, calming down and seeming relieved, “Good.”

He spends another half an hour on the phone with her – her attempt at distraction, he knows. After that, he puts on a bit of _Bake Off_ to kill time and not think, which isn’t entirely successful, before he realises it’s nearly three o’clock and he needs to be at Primrose Hill in fifty minutes.

“Shit,” Liam swears, shutting his laptop and stumbling from his bed, ripping off his joggers to pull on some jeans. He leaves his t-shirt on – an old and faded Usher garb – before grabbing the only coat he owns, black and simple, and heading out the door. He curses the fact he forgot deodorant whilst he’s on the tube, the train screeching away from Bethnal Green station with a finality he succumbs to. He’ll just have to hope he doesn’t sweat too much.

“Wanker,” Sophia greets him, kissing his cheek and shoving a coffee into his hand once he arrives just after four. Luckily it seems like Eleanor’s not there yet, so he’s off the hook. “Not like you to be late.”

“Sorry,” he apologises, gulping down the foul tasting coffee for lack of anything else to do and wishing Sophia had thought to douse it in sugar, “Got caught up watching _Bake Off._ ”

“What _is_ your obsession with that show?” She asks, appalled, before waving him off as they walk through the hallways of the label, “Forget it. Eleanor’s in a tiff.”

Liam wants to roll his eyes – Eleanor’s always in a tiff these days – but instead he frowns, hoping Sophia understands his gentle prod for an explanation. She doesn’t even look at him, but explains anyway.

“She says we haven’t scheduled enough studio time, thinks she could come up with a few more of her own if we had more.” Sophia’s still facing forward as Liam lags behind, so he can’t exactly gauge what she thinks about this. “But I told her – if she’s so unhappy with the final track list, then she needs to offer something _now_. That shut her up.”

Liam bites his tongue. Eleanor’s dislike of his material isn’t new, but he’s technically not even a member of the band. They’re a duo, and he knows sometimes Eleanor feels pressured by the fact her songwriting muse seems evasive.

Liam would gladly trade. He’d rather an evasive muse instead of one that can’t stop writing about someone who left him cold one morning five years ago. He’d appreciate the reprieve.

He’s not sure Eleanor would take kindly to hearing that, though.

“Where the ruddy hell have you two been?” Eleanor snaps to his surprise once they enter the meeting room, the producer and a few label reps present. She’s got sunglasses on, her brown hair straight but frizzy. She looks spectacularly hungover.

 _This is going to be a long afternoon,_ he thinks.

The meeting, though, is not as bad as he thought it would be. There’s the usual confusion over Liam’s involvement considering he’s merely a touring band member, but Sophia insists he should be there – “You wrote half the album, anyway.” (which is an exaggeration Eleanor looks mutinous at) – and they move onto other things. They’re scheduled for a week in the studio, recording the rest of their track list, a few having been finished already. There’s discussion of the proposed tour, merchandising, and a whole other set of things Liam has no say in. It’s interesting, though, to sit in on.

“Christ,” Eleanor exclaims once they exit the building, having warmed up to Liam after he spoke up to refuse they cut out _Here and Now_ from the album, his personal favourite and coincidentally a song written by Eleanor, “I need a drink.”

“Nor,” Sophia chides, shaking her head with a smile, “You turned up today still sloshed.”

“Did not,” Eleanor retorts, though the slight quirk of the corners of her mouth hint at a lie, “Besides, it’s still the weekend.”

“We don’t have weekends.” Liam reminds her.

“Okay!” Eleanor says loudly, drawing the attention of an elderly lady wearing clothes more expensive than Liam’s life savings right now, “I get it. No drinking.”

Sophia shoots Liam a look, amused but grateful.

“Can still go to the pub, though,” he suggests, thinking of his flat and the way his phone would sit on his bedside, glaring at him accusingly, “Nothing wrong with that.”

“I like the way you think, Payne.” Eleanor agrees, and Sophia shoots him a less amused and less grateful look this time around.

The pub is buzzing even though it’s not quite six yet, but it’s a Saturday night and so it makes sense. Liam’s just not used to the routine of your everyday person who works a nine to five job in the city. The kind of pub that’s around Primrose Hill is pricier than he’s used to, but now that he’s signed a few things he’s due for a payment this week, so he can indulge.

They sit down with a few bowls of chips to start, and Eleanor wolfs some down much to the horror of Sophia.

“What?” Eleanor asks after swallowing down a large mouthful, looking indignant.

“Your accent tricks people.” Sophia jokes, biting back a smile. Eleanor rolls her eyes, but Liam glimpses the quirk of her lips as she tries not to laugh.

“Enough of that,” Eleanor waves her off, and Sophia lifts a brow before delicately taking a few chips for herself, “What’re you two up to this weekend?”

“It’s only just started!” Sophia complains, and Liam knows she has nothing planned. If she did, she’d be bursting to tell them. Instead, her whining lets him know she’s embarrassed about her lack of plans and was hoping it wouldn’t come up. Liam doesn’t have anything on himself, but sometimes he likes to sit around and watch a few episodes of _Bake Off_ , maybe write. The thought of writing makes his insides squirm – it’s a double-edged sword these days with the way he can’t seem to stop, and yet his subject matter is a hurtful reminder of opportunities lost.

 _Stop thinking about it,_ Liam scolds himself as Eleanor details her plans to get sloshed. But he can’t, really. That’s the whole problem. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it for five years, and the reintroduction of Harry has left him reeling. Liam tells himself he shouldn’t humour Harry, shouldn’t respond to any text or even start up anything. There’s a part of him that knows himself too well, though – if Harry says something, Liam’s going to be helpless to reply.

He needs closure, he realises. Harry will remember him eventually, and then he’ll either apologise or show his true colours. Liam needs that. He needs to move on and forget about 2013 altogether. A year filled with a bad break-up, unrequited love, and a career standstill. Liam’s ready to move on from it, but he needs help – even if it’s from the most unlikely source.

Liam slips away to order them beers after all once Sophia starts talking about the tour rehearsals they’ll be due for in May. It seems like eons from now, only half-way through February. But Liam knows they’re discussing it more out of nerves than necessity. Their first proper tour, dates around the UK in small venues. Liam’s looking forward to it, if only for the way he’ll be able to distract himself with the beat of the drum through his veins, the feel of the sticks in his hands, callouses old and weary.

Drumming’s his therapy. Simple as that. Singing he can do – he’s good at, even... good enough to do backing vocals, anyway – but it’s drumming that lets him lose himself. It’s the crack of wood on calfskin, the reverberation of the rhythm across his skin, the way his limbs seem to do things of their own accord without Liam thinking about it, the drip of sweat down his temples; Liam never feels more alive in a moment than when the rest of the song drowns out and the hi-hat kicks in, bass drum a heartbeat to him.

Touring is the only way he truly gets it regularly, the only time he feels himself. Behind the drum kit, snapback backwards on his head to collect sweat. Liam loves the ache of his arms, the persistence it takes to push through an unnatural beat, to let the sticks become another part of him.

Heavy with alcohol after a few pints – Liam’s tolerance isn’t what it used to be, and Eleanor is a seasoned drinker despite Sophia’s disapproval – Liam doesn’t mind when Eleanor holds her phone up from a selfie. He doesn’t mind that he can’t okay the photo before she posts it somewhere. He doesn’t mind when her eyes go big and wide and glassy ten minutes later, Sophia almost in her lap to see the phone in Eleanor’s perfectly manicured fingers, nails bright red and menacing.

“Fuck off,” Eleanor says, wonder in her tone. Liam gulps down his fourth lager, the warm fizz of the drink settling in his stomach uncomfortably. They need more food if he’s going to take the tube home to Bethnal Green after this, an hour’s ride on a good day.

“Babe,” Sophia slurs, and Liam supposes they’re all a little drunk by now. It’s Saturday, though, and the girls are signed, and Liam’s got a job, and all-round things are good. Even if Harry Styles doesn’t remember him, doesn’t remember promising a future. “Harry Styles followed us. He retweeted our photo.”

At first Liam thinks he’s hallucinated – a new low, one that Ellie will make fun of him for later when he tells her in the blur of a hangover. Because surely the name Harry Styles didn’t come out of Eleanor’s mouth? There’s no reason for it to. She knows him only by name, only by the fact that his last album was award-winning and blew up the charts everywhere. Only by the fact he’s got a highly anticipated release this year. That’s the only way she’d know him, the only reason to utter his utterly ridiculous name.

“Darling,” Eleanor slurs, leaning into Sophia with a roll of her eyes, “I know. I’m _looking_. I’m the one who pulled it up–”

Liam reaches over and pulls the phone toward him, ignoring Eleanor’s fight to keep it closer to herself. Sophia’s fingers flit over her wrist, though, and she loosens her hold.

Eleanor’s picture sits on the screen, posted to Hush’s Twitter account. The caption reads _pints with the girls xx_. Hilarious, Liam thinks, considering he’s there on the right, smile dopey and drunk.

 _Harry Styles. Retweeted_ it reads above the HushMusic tweet. Then Liam sees the notification.

_@Harry_Styles has followed you back!_

Liam lets go in a rush, the phone coming back to Eleanor so quickly she blinks in shock, owlish and confused. Sophia taps on the phone, still mesmerised. The pub is still noisy, a boisterous group of mates by the bar laughing like nothing monumental just happened.

“Why’d he follow us?” She asks, brows furrowed. The chip bowl has a few crumbs in it, hard and cold with age. Liam stares at them with a ferocity he rarely gets, stomach churning. “Not just the band account, but all our personals, too.”

Liam can hardly breathe at the thought. The beers are hitting him, the alcohol uncomfortable in his veins, lighting them in a slow burn that makes him sweat all over. This isn’t anything he expected. Harry has his number, was so forward at the party; and yet he chooses this public platform to make his first move, like a game that Liam never learned the rules of.

He’s angry all of a sudden, riled up by the fact Harry thinks he can just waltz back into Liam’s life and disrupt everything about it; that Harry can win him over with a follow and a retweet. The worst thing about it all is that he probably could, if Liam didn’t know better. If Liam weren’t pissed six ways from Sunday and _mad_ and in the company of someone like Eleanor who reminds him daily not to take anyone’s shit; if he hadn’t written half an album that cursed love and screamed and got angry and refused to forgive... well, Liam would’ve been won over. As it is he’s just mildly annoyed, his rage simmering down like a pot left on a turned off stove.

“Probably just a promotional thing,” Liam says offhandedly, wishing he hadn’t finished his last drink and had something to gulp down greedily, “Needs to be seen supporting indie bands or somethin’.”

“We’re not with the same record label,” Eleanor comments and Liam simply shrugs, tearing at the coaster in front of him. There’s a slight pause where Liam looks up to see Sophia and Eleanor still frowning down at the phone before the latter flicks her hair away from her face, a clear attempt to recompose herself. “Well, whatever. Looks good for us.”

“D’you think he’d reply to a DM?” Sophia slurs, and she giggles into Eleanor’s hair, “He’s so dreamy.”

Liam gulps, clears his throat.

“One more?” He prompts, and Eleanor’s eyes flick to him. She seems confused still, but the usual edge to her look isn’t there so she’s probably too drunk to follow a particularly baffling line of thought like why Harry Styles is following their small all-girl indie rock duo.

“Please.” Eleanor groans, her posh accent sounding extravagant and making Liam snort. Sophia pokes her cheek, grinning.

“Maybe a spot of tea,” Sophia says, making fun as Eleanor scowls, “Liam, dear, fetch the butler. He hasn’t cleaned the fountain out front today.”

“Are you paying your servants enough, El?” Liam teases, sliding out of his seat and grabbing his wallet from his back pocket, thankful for the change in subject. Eleanor puts her phone back into her jeans pocket, “I’ve heard the Queen upped her prices – you ought to match.”

“Shove off!” Eleanor snaps, shoving a tenner at Liam. He grabs it, his bank account thankful he doesn’t have to pay – it’s not like Eleanor’s pride would let him – and turns toward the bar, grin feeling flat on his face.

The few beers after numb his fingers so he can’t check his phone, open up Twitter, and do something stupid and reckless and stupidly reckless. It’s hitting eleven by the time they decide to leave, all of them earning scornful looks from the other patrons for being so clearly out of place despite their ability to pay for their drinks.

“Leave me!” Sophia sings drunkenly as Eleanor and Liam heft her up, an arm over each of their shoulders, “Lying here! ‘Cause I don’t wanna go!”

“Stop quoting my own bloody lyrics back at me,” Liam grumbles, refusing to think of cold mornings in an empty bed, “We’ll get sick of them soon enough.”

“God, you’re a lightweight,” Eleanor grunts, and Liam shouldn’t be surprised that she can still function with that much alcohol in her lithe body, “Getting home’s going to be a pain.”

“Let me go with you,” Liam insists, knowing that their commute to their absolute dump in Lambeth will be sketchy on the tube when they’re both so alcohol affected, “I’ll go home after.”

“Don’t be daft, Liam,” Eleanor hisses, struggling with Sophia’s weight, “You can sleep on the couch. I may be bitchy but I’m not _cruel_.”

When they stumble through the door an hour later – walking to and from the tube stations was time-consuming, Sophia no help – Daisy greets them. She’s got some friends over it seems, empty shot glasses on the coffee table Sophia picked up on the side of the road a year ago, crisps littered around messily.

“Hey, Liam.” she purrs, and Liam’s just drunk enough that he doesn’t blush.

“Keep your twat in your undies, Daise,” Eleanor snarks, huffing as Sophia drapes herself all over her, “Liam’s not interested.”

Liam would’ve let her down more politely, but Daisy simply shrugs and turns back around to her friends, unperturbed. She comes onto him every time they cross paths, which is why Liam usually avoids their flat. She’s unusually persistent, though Liam gets the feeling she does it more out of habit by now than actual interest. She’s a goth type, and Liam’s surprised she ever genuinely tried to pull him in the first place; Liam with his plaid shirts and basketball shorts.

Liam knows he can’t take the couch, though, considering Daisy has her friends over. He helps Eleanor with Sophia, depositing her heavily onto Sophia’s bed. They look down at their friend, half-asleep and strewn across the covers like a child.

“Fine,” Eleanor gripes, as if she’s giving into his demands. Liam’s stumped, until she continues, “You can have my bed. But _don’t_ touch anything. I’ll know.”

Liam leaves at her ominous tone, glimpsing Eleanor kicking off her boots and climbing into bed with Sophia over his shoulder as he leaves.

He does the same in Eleanor’s room, kicking off his own boots. He takes off his jeans because his bits will thank him in the morning and lies down on Eleanor’s bed, ignoring the posters of women with frankly frightening mascara glaring down at him and trying not to feel like he’s invading Eleanor’s privacy. He falls asleep to the glow of Eleanor’s bright pink lava lamp, wondering when he travelled back in time to 1998.

It’s only once he’s safe back home in front of the telly the next day, afternoon sun making his head ache, that he remembers precisely why he was so drunk in the first place.

He pulls up his Twitter and sees that Harry has indeed followed him.

Liam clenches his jaw before tapping on Harry’s name. He’s taken to his account – something that has a staggering 26 million followers. Liam has a measly ten thousand, accrued over five years and mostly thanks to Zayn.

Although, when he looks to his follower count now, it’s nearing... _Holy shit_ , Liam thinks, eyes widening, _One hundred thousand..._

He jumps back to Harry’s count, sees his 30 likes are full of cute animals – a surprising contrast to the smooth talker at the party, but reminding Liam of the boy he cuddled in 2013 – and that he tweets obscure things, the very occasional reply in there about his music.

He taps back to his own profile, sees the ‘payne enterprises’ and gives an internal wince. He hasn’t changed it since he got Twitter; thought himself entirely too hilarious for thinking it up and figured it wouldn’t matter when the only people who followed him were his family and friends. And although he may have – _bloody hell,_ Liam thinks – 100,000 followers now, he’s still not verified. Because why would he request verification? Well, his manager might kick up more of a fuss about it now that he’s got a significant following, but the idea of a blue tick next to his name makes him feel weirdly uneasy.

His profile photo’s him behind the drums, and his last tweet is from a few days ago – before the party – and reads:

 **Liam** @Real_Liam_Payne  
Arms of steeeeeel! #hushaintquiet  
6:16 PM – 21 Feb 2018

Liam cringes, wants to face-palm. He looks like a right idiot talking about his own arms, using hashtags that don’t even really make sense, and getting a total of 100 likes on it with a smattering of retweets.

Going back through his timeline is even worse, and after ten minutes Liam’s biting down on his bottom lip and looking at the huge gap between the middle of September 2013 and the New Year. When he was too busy pining after Harry to care about much else.

Liam doesn’t dare tempt himself by hovering a thumb over Harry’s follow button.

 _Christ, I’m pathetic,_ Liam thinks viciously, quitting the app and refusing to look at the way his mentions are blowing up. People are just curious is all. Harry Styles followed him, retweeted something from the band he tours for. It makes sense that they’d want to ask Liam questions.

“Hey.”

Liam jumps, dropping his mobile onto his lap with a pained grunt. He turns his head to look behind him and sees Louis in the hallway, hair mussed and eyes dark with lack of sleep.

“Lou,” Liam says, too loudly considering Louis grimaces at the sound. He continues more quietly, “Sorry. Uhm, how’re you?”

“Not fab, Liam.” replies Louis, shuffling into the kitchen. He’s wearing plaid pyjama bottoms and a long-sleeved shirt that looks loose around the shoulders. Liam doesn’t want to think it, but it looks like something of Zayn’s from a few years ago. Forgotten in the move; though maybe not forgotten so much as hidden. Liam brushes those thoughts aside. “Last night was late and then you came barging into the flat this morning–”

“It was ten thirty, Lou–”

“And woke me up. I’ve been in bed dreading human interaction ever since.”

“That was four hours ago.” Liam tells him, lifting an eyebrow.

“So?” Louis snaps, pulling an empty mug toward him and depositing a tea bag inside, the red of the English Breakfast label catching Liam’s eye. “I’d thank you to keep the judgement out of your tone, Liam.”

“Alright,” Liam acquiesces, huffing in fond exasperation, “No need to get snappy.”

Louis narrows his eyes but seems to forgive Liam considering he heaves a sigh instead, face relaxing.

Once he sits down with his tea – “No, you can’t have any. It’s got no sugars anyway, you heathen. You’d hate it.” – right near Liam, he finally decides to comment on Liam’s program choice.

“ _Bake Off_ ?” Louis’s face contorts into something offended, “Ugh, put on _Gogglebox_.”

Liam switches obediently, his fingers rubbing against the edges of his phone with nerves. He hasn’t seen Louis properly since the terrible party and he tells Louis _everything_. Often to his own detriment. But Liam takes their roommate vow of no secrets very seriously, even if it was made four or so years ago with the promise of no hoes before bros. Louis’ gay, but he’d said the motto had still applied and so it stuck.

Even if Liam maybe, sort of, kind of, didn’t _really_ tell Louis about Harry. Ever.

Well, he’s about to tell him now.

“So,” He starts hesitantly ten minutes into the episode, and Louis rolls his eyes, cuts him off as he mutes the families sitting on their sofas.

“Alright, Payno. Have at it.” He says, putting down his tea and shifting to look at Liam straight. His stare is piercing, and Liam fidgets at the scrutiny. “You’ve been dying to tell me something since that stupid party _Zayn_ ,” He spits out the name, but that’s not unusual these days, “invited you to.”

Liam swallows thickly, tries not to imagine the offence that’ll work its way onto Louis’ face once he realises he’s been lied to.

“I met someone,” Liam blurts, and closes his eyes in defeat when he realises how that sounds, what Louis will make of it. His flatmate’s been trying to get him to go out since... well, since Dani. Which was before Harry, even.

_Has it really been that long?_

“Do tell.” Louis drawls, smirking.

“Okay, see, the thing is–” Liam puts his hands out, gesturing in a way that makes him feel like he’s giving a lecture and not telling Louis about the boy who left him cold in his own bed one Friday morning five years ago. “Well, alright. I’m sorry for lying,” Louis’ face goes dark, smirk wiped clean off of it in a second, “But it’s been rather a sore subject and he turned up again on Friday, alright? I didn’t know he was going to be there, and I made a fool of myself, and Zayn doesn’t even know – and I tell Zayn everything, too. To be honest, no one else really knows apart from Ellie, maybe Andy because he was there–”

“ _Liam!_ ” Louis exclaims, and Liam looks up from frowning down at his ankles tucked underneath him to see Louis, stern look on his face, impatient and waiting. Oh. He’s been trying to get Liam’s attention.

“Sorry.” Liam apologises meekly, ignoring Louis’ sharp look. Right. Stop apologising for the things he hasn’t done wrong. He’s got to remember that one.

“Alright,” Louis breathes out, rubbing his forehead tiredly with his left hand, “Who’s this chap, then? The boy from Friday?”

“He’s not really a _boy_ –”

“ _Liam._ ” Louis warns, and Liam bites his tongue. He waits a moment, musters up the courage that’s been buried deep inside him for a while now, breathes long and low to remember this moment because it’s going to change _everything_ having Louis know. If Louis knows then Harry Styles will no longer be an unknown to him. Harry Styles will be that guy who ripped out Liam’s heart and that’s just embarrassing because they never agreed to anything, never gave promises–

Well, that’s what Liam’s had to tell himself, anyway.

Liam scratches the back of his neck, plays with the hem of his joggers and avoids Louis’ probing eyes.

“Harry Styles was at the party on Friday,” Liam mumbles, hoping Louis hears him because he can’t honestly bear to repeat it, “I ran into him.”

“Liam,” says Louis, and Liam inhales sharply though quietly at his tone – pitying, apologetic. “Mate, that’s... he’s something else, yeah?”

 _God,_ Liam thinks, his palms breaking out into sweat, his hands trembling just slightly. Something else... Harry’s something else, he’s... well, the Harry that Liam knows – _knew_ , he corrects himself – was everything. He was talented, he was humble, he was passionate, he was focused, he was _loving_. But the Harry of 2018 is a Harry that Liam _doesn’t_ know.

“Right,” Liam admits, huffing out a laugh that sounds a tad broken even to his own ears, “Of course. It’s just that he and I slept together five years ago.”

The silence that follows that statement is stagnant. Liam’s still singularly focused on his joggers, his socked feet feeling clunky and awkward next to Louis – petite, fine-featured Louis. Liam doesn’t want to look up and see what his best friend is thinking. Louis may be many things, but he’s a terrible liar – especially when it comes to things that matter.

“You slept together?” Louis prods, and the way his voice has turned soft is worse than any kind of expression of condolence, any kind of apology. Louis is brash and in your face and unapologetic. He’s soft when he knows you’re vulnerable, emotional when he knows you’re on the edge of breaking.

Is Liam on the edge of breaking?

“Yeah,” Liam croaks, and finally looks up to Louis. His face is considering, thoughtful. He’s trying to suss out why Liam’s the way he is, Liam supposes. After all, most people aren’t this hung up about someone they slept with five years ago, and Louis hasn’t even found out it was a one night stand yet. “2013.”

“So... so you were together, then?” prompts Louis, and he’s shifted closer now, places a warm hand on top of Liam’s fidgeting one. The strange sense of relief inside Liam can’t seem to make peace with the deep _hurt_ he feels. Theoretically he’s sharing the burden; but in practise he’s just embarrassed, shamed, still confused.

“Not,” Liam breathes out, raising his eyebrows wryly, “Not exactly.”

Another pause.

“Right,” Louis concludes, and Liam’s so grateful in that moment for him. So grateful that he doesn’t have to explain much more, if anything. So grateful that Louis knows him well enough to treat him delicately, even if he’s surely thinking that Liam is a ridiculous idiot who let his traitorous heart fall in love way too easily. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? Love.

It’s a love for the feeling in his veins when Harry touched his waist in that bar. It’s a love for the way Harry cradled his jaw, gentle but firm. It’s a love for the wide smile that split Harry’s face in two. It’s a love for the off-hand promises of birthdays and a future. It’s a love for the simplicity of it, the ease with which Liam found himself thinking _Yes. This one._ It’s a love for all those things but most of all it’s a love for Harry – a love for a Harry who hit on him using beer, and a love for a Harry who cradled his hand whilst they looked at pictures of tattoos on Liam’s phone.

But Liam can’t let himself think that. It’s a love totally unfounded – a love he’s kept close to his chest because he knows it doesn’t make sense, he knows no one (not even Harry) will understand. It’s a love for _love_ , not a person. Liam would do well to remember that.

Suddenly Louis is almost in Liam’s lap, entirely too big and fidgety to be a little spoon on a sofa but seeming to know that’s what Liam needs. Liam brings his hands up from underneath his friend, circles them around his torso and rests his chin on Louis’ soft shoulder.

“You’ve been so good to me, Lou,” Liam chokes out, and he realises now that he’s tearing up – both his thoughts and the situation making him feel overwhelmed, too full of something he can’t name, “Honestly.”

“Shut up,” Louis snaps fiercely, and Liam laughs wetly. He’s surely angry at Liam that he even has to thank him, that Liam doesn’t ordinarily expect this.

And it’s not like Liam’s other friends are terrible – they’re really not, as evidenced by his chat with Ellie on the phone, and the way Sophia and Eleanor keep him occupied because they know the lyrics he writes for them have a deeper meaning than the shrugs he gives at any questions. Andy, even, is always up for footy or a video game when it’s needed. A drink at the pub every week, like old times.

Louis is different, though.

“After everything with–” Louis falters, and Liam squeezes him a tad tighter in response, “After the whole Zayn mess, you were the only person outside of family who helped. So I owe you. But,” He tacks on, and he pulls back to cradle Liam’s cheeks in his hands. Warm, firm hands to match his personality. A constant presence, reassuring in every way, and completely and utterly selfless. Liam’s lucky to know him. “It’s not about owing. You know that, right?”

Liam thinks of Danielle, of her feeling like she owed him more when his deeper feelings started becoming obvious. The plain discomfort on her face when he did something particularly sappy, too much for a couple of only six months.

“I know,” Liam laughs out, “believe me. You don’t think you owe anyone anything.”

“Exactly,” Louis says, grinning, patting Liam on the cheeks, “You know me well.”

“I’d hope so,” Liam retorts, trying not to smile too much as Louis slides away and off onto the couch next to him, “We’ve only been living together for four years. I’ve heard enough of your sex noises to last a lifetime!” Liam laughs, scrunching up his nose at the awkward memories.

Louis gives an empty sort of huff, maybe a laugh in another universe, and Liam remembers with a sudden dread that this has kind of been an off-limits topic for them for a year or so now.

“You think,” starts Louis, saving Liam from more apologies and an awkward silence, “Maybe... well, you’ve got to move on from Styles, yeah?” Louis’s eyes flit about Liam’s face, searching for something.

“Yeah,” Liam echoes, “I mean... well, I want to.”

He _does_ want to move on, that’s not a lie. The last five years haven’t been amazing in the romantic sense. If he wasn’t thinking about Harry, he was actively _not_ thinking about him – which is almost worse. It’s been a supreme torture; because every time that Liam thought he had a handle on it, he was reminded. Whether by radio, or poster, or random passer-by with Harry Styles merchandise. It’s – _he’s_ – been ever invasive. Like a quick-acting virus, taking root in every cell of Liam’s life and living there, dormant, only to strike when he’s weak and vulnerable.

Liam wants to be rid of the virus once and for all. He’s about done with this illness – the sweats he gets at those familiar dulcet tunes; the way the memories accost him in the thick of night like a silent intruder; the fact that another’s touch feels alien and wrong.

“Good,” Louis says decisively, “Because I think cold turkey’s not worked. You need closure.”

If Liam were a mean person, he might laugh. A suggestion of closure? From Louis? He’s not a mean person, though, so he simply frowns.

“Don’t look like that,” snaps Louis, slapping Liam lightly in the face. Liam glares at him, not actually angry, “You know I’m right. Meet up with him. Ask him about it. Apologise,” Liam’s face must darken because Louis rushes on, “Or get an apology. Then leave, and everyone’s happy.”

Liam doesn’t think it’ll be that easy. Nothing about his relationship with Harry has been easy. That was always the problem – Liam _thought_ it was easy, but it turned into something so complex, so difficult, that it’s now so messy he can’t untangle it.

Maybe it _was_ easy, though, now that Liam thinks about it. Harry left like it was easy. To him, it was simple. Liam’s the one who mucked it all up.

That thought makes him hurt, but he’s also filled with a determination, his heart skipping a beat at the thought of a confrontation. It’ll do him good, though, he knows. Louis is right. Closure.

When Liam lies in bed that night, an afternoon with Louis making his cheeks ache from smiling so much, he brings up Twitter. He searches the name, he taps on the profile, he clicks follow.

It’s barely a minute later, Liam scrolling idly through his timeline and ignoring the number of notifications at the bottom of the app, that a text comes in from the top of the screen.

_Liam, thank you for following me. Now I have an excuse to text you! This is Harry Styles, by the way. Just in case the banana didn’t tip you off xx_

The banana emoji sitting comfortably next to _Harry_ makes Liam smile, pained and small. Harry’s a formal texter, it seems. Liam tries a little harder than usual, just so Harry can actually understand him.

 _u didnt need an excuse!_ He types quickly once he’s in the relevant app, trying not to think about it more deeply.

_Perfect. Do you want to get something to eat tomorrow? Dinner? xx_

Liam stares at his phone, swallows thickly. Harry’s doing all the work but still Liam hesitates, wondering if he’s going too far.

_coffee?_

Liam is focusing so hard on the three dots that he almost jumps when they change to actual words.

_Coffee would be wonderful. Do you have a preferred place, or should I pick? xx_

Liam ignores the lowercase ‘x’s again and replies, fingers sliding across his screen in his haste, a little damp with nervous sweat.

 _no pref._ He pauses, deliberating. _10am?_

_I’ve got a meeting at 11. I could do earlier if you’d like. Or if you’re not an early riser like me, afternoon would work. xx_

Liam would love to get it out of the way early, but getting up for anything that’s earlier than ten o’clock seems too ambitious. He’ll just have to deal with a full day of worry and hope he doesn’t crack under the pressure. Maybe Louis will be around to distract him. Liam might offer to write with him – always a good incentive considering he never does and Louis always capitalises on rare opportunities.

He doesn’t want Harry to think it’s a lunch date – or a date in any capacity, really – and so Liam sends him a _2pm?_ and that’s it.

Harry must be a fast typer, because his _2pm it is! I’ll pick you up then? What’s your address? xx_ comes in barely five seconds later.

Liam’s stomach clenches with nerves at the thought of Harry picking him up – not only because that’s very date like and Liam _did_ just think to himself that he didn’t want Harry to think it’s a date; but the thought of Harry seeing Liam’s admittedly lacklustre accommodations doesn’t sit well with him. It’s not like Harry’s place however many years ago was terribly amazing, either, but he’s sure to be lying against Egyptian cotton sheets these days. _Not_ like he would be lying against Liam’s sheets if he picked him up, though... it’s just the principle. Liam knows the threadbare couch and the crusty old bin next to the kitchen counter and the kettle that takes forever to boil would look abysmally pathetic next to anything Harry’s used to. And Liam’s had enough humiliation involving Harry to last a lifetime.

 _give me the name of the coffe place ill get there myself_ , he pauses in consideration, adding on a smiley to make things seem less hostile. Although he’s sort of, maybe, planning to confront Harry, he doesn’t want to come off as a wanker before they’ve even sat down. Liam’s not stupid, even if he sometimes feels like it – Harry’s important in the industry, and pissing him off because Liam let his shame get the best of him probably isn’t the best idea.

 _If you’re sure,_ Harry texts, followed by the name of a coffee place that Liam knows is in the Soho area. Not exactly a place Liam’d expect out of Harry – thought he’d be more about somewhere in Kensington, or maybe even Primrose. But Liam’s not going to question it, not when it’s a place he can maybe afford to grab a plain tea and load it with sugar.

Liam gives his affirmative, plugging his old smart phone in to charge overnight, refusing to look at Harry’s possible reply. In fact, he refuses to even think about it – because if he does, he’s going to be up all night thinking of the many ways in which he can bullocks this up and make things even worse for himself. Closure, Louis said. Well, Liam’s starting right now, and that means closing his eyes and ignoring the memory of Harry’s hand cradling his, of the taste of Harry through cotton–

He spends the next day writing with Louis who, thank God, has the day off. Usually he’ll spend it lying in bed for hours or playing some footy with mates around Bethnal Green Gardens right near their flat, but there must be a certain look on Liam’s face because he acquiesces with only minor grumbling.

They’re breaking for an early lunch – just some ham and cheese sarnies because they’re doing okay but they still have to budget ever since Zayn left; although Liam feels better about his contribution now than he did when that happened, Louis paying more than his fair share without complaint (although the sour look on his face at the newly empty bedroom Liam will never forget) – by the time Liam’s fidgeting legs become too much for Louis.

“Stop that,” he snaps, and Liam feels a sharp pain in his right leg at the force of Louis’ kick, “You’re making _me_ anxious.”

“Sorry.” Liam mumbles through bread and cheddar, wiping at his mouth to get rid of crumbs. He doesn’t explain why he’s so nervous, but somehow Louis seems to have caught on with his best friend intuition – it’s that, or he snuck a look at Liam’s phone that morning and read Harry’s last message to him, a _Wonderful, Liam. xx_ that sat heavy and impossible to ignore at the bottom of Liam’s stomach.

Louis waves him off an hour later, and Liam spends the remaining forty minutes he has until he needs to leave trawling through his closet in the hopes of finding something casual enough for coffee with a friend, but nice enough that Harry won’t laugh at him.

Well, Harry of five years ago wouldn’t have laughed. He would have grinned, dimpled and wide, eyes flitting over Liam’s attire approvingly before kissing him. At least, Liam imagines. He’s imagined a lot over the years.

“I’ll see you later!” Liam calls out as he’s leaving the flat, the mid-length pea coat his parents got him for his birthday a few years back coupled with a navy blue scarf someone gifted him eons ago making him feel bulky and awkward. He’s donned some darker jeans with dark slip-on boots; he feels like his faded red t-shirt makes him more casual – that’s what he tells himself, at least, as he’s on the tube. His stubble feels less designer and more like someone who doesn’t own a razor, and his hair was such a mess he just ran a helpless hand through the curls and hoped for the best. It’s not exactly the composed impression he wanted to make upon meeting Harry again, but he has to keep reminding himself that Harry’s not going to be looking at his hair when Liam tells him they slept together five years ago. Chances are Harry’s going to be staring at him in disbelief, then laughing as he walks away from Liam and his English Breakfast.

He arrives only five minutes late, hopping into the queue as soon as he enters the coffee place. He takes out his phone, sees no text message, and bites his lip as he flips the device between his fingers.

 _It’s fine. Harry’ll be here,_ he tells himself, the most outlandish of circumstances popping up in his brain, like Harry having helped deliver a baby, or getting snowed in (forget there’s been no snow this winter in London), or going to the wrong coffee place even though _he_ was the one–

“Liam?”

Liam whirls around, almost hitting the poor woman behind him with his scarf. He mumbles an apology, red-faced and sweating. Harry takes the few steps towards him, his smile gentle and kind.

 _Christ,_ Liam thinks helplessly, chest tightening.

His hair is tied back into a bun, a few wispy curls falling out around his ears. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans – Liam thanks his own outfit choice – with a stylish trench coat. It’s a simple outfit, but Liam’s sure it costs more than what’s in his own savings as Barclays.

Basically, he looks just as Liam imagined he would – effortlessly attractive, and completely unattainable. Liam swallows down a compliment and gives an awkward smile instead.

“Harry.” He replies, coughing. He goes to pull at his scarf, suddenly feeling the heat of the coffee shop’s winter heating, when Harry’s own hand comes up to tug at him, a quirk to his lips Liam can’t name.

“Love the scarf.” he says, and then their eyes are meeting, green on brown, and Liam doesn’t know what to say other than–

“Was a gift,” he chokes out, clearing his throat, “Have you ordered?” Harry cocks his head, the ghost of a frown lingering before his face clears and he smiles again, eyes warm and... well, Liam would describe them as expectant but he’s not entirely sure of what.

“No, I was waiting for you,” explains Harry, voice quiet. Liam looks around, sees a few heads turn in their direction but no whispers, no pointing. Maybe Harry chose this place for a reason. “Thought about what you might get?”

They’re closer to the counter now, Harry’s clothed arm bumping into Liam’s own. Finally, he manages to take off his scarf, breathing deeply at the way it feels like his own chest is free of it, not merely his neck.

“Just some tea, I think.” Liam says, decision long ago made though Harry doesn’t need to know that. This feels easy, and all of a sudden Liam’s terrified.

“Excellent choice,” Harry tells him, nudging him with a soft elbow, “I might go a cappuccino myself – I love the froth.” He smiles toothily, grinning at Liam in a way that makes the prospect of upsetting him once they sit down almost unfathomable.

Can he do this? Liam doesn’t know, giving his order – an Earl Grey, because he’s feeling uneasy and doesn’t want to taint his usual choice with this nerve-wracking day – and chuckling along to Harry’s story about how his sister taught him to make the best froth. He feels like he’s not even in his own body, the tea at his lips minutes later not feeling like anything at all despite its heat.

When they sit down in the corner of the shop, Harry’s cappuccino in hand and Liam’s tea half-finished already, Liam allows himself one long look.

He’s been ignoring it, of course. Harry Styles is everywhere, a Google image search away if Liam had ever been so inclined. Liam may be pathetic, but he’s not a masochist. Every time he glimpsed those dimples, or the hair that just got longer and longer, or the green eyes that glittered too bright – he turned away, redirected his gaze. It became habit after a while, and he finds himself even these days looking past everyday people with these features, like they’re a spirit he can’t see.

Looking at Harry head-on now, though, he wishes he hadn’t done those things; because then, maybe, he would’ve been prepared for the way his wide hands gesture wildly. Maybe then he would’ve been prepared for the warmth behind the green, the way his eyes have rings of colour and the kind of depth Liam never would’ve been able to grasp through a photo; if he’d let himself suffer a little more, maybe then he would’ve been prepared for the stretch of Harry’s lips around a smile, for the sheer force of his happiness when you’re in his proximity. Because he really is that – he’s happy.

Suddenly, Liam can’t do it.

He doesn’t know how long Harry’s been talking for – Liam giving the affirmative and a short comment here and there – but Liam’s got a few mouthfuls of his cooling tea left, and Harry’s only just finished up his froth, a little of it sticking to his top lip stubbornly. Absently, Liam understands the want.

He scrapes his chair back quickly, standing like he’s a soldier and been brought to attention. Harry stops mid-story – something about Niall, his Irish friend, and a bar in Spain – to look up at him, surprise written all over his face.

“Well,” Liam croaks, clearing his throat of _Five years ago, you and I..._ “This has been great. But I’ve got to go.”

“What?” Harry laughs, smiling with a bemused frown, “Sit down, Liam.”

“We’ll talk later, yeah?” Liam blurts out, rushing to finish, “I’ve–”

“But you haven’t finished your drink.” Harry says, also standing, the frown no longer mixed with a smile.

“You can have it,” Liam explains, getting frantic now, pulling his scarf around his neck and shoving his hands into his coat pockets, “Honestly. It’s cold, anyway. I’ve got to go,” He hesitates, Harry’s frown deepening in a way that makes guilt fire up in his veins, “Bye.”

He turns, striding out of the shop with a hastiness he doesn’t usually display, normally all too happy to meander when the clock lets him. But right now Liam just needs to leave – because he can’t take the happiness away from Harry’s face, he can’t let him know that he _hurt_ Liam; that what they had five years ago was a misunderstanding of epic proportions. At the same time, he can’t sit there and listen to Harry talk about his life – a life Liam’s not a part of – with a smile and a whacky story. He just can’t.

It’s barely three o’clock when he walks through the front door of his flat, brushing off the paint peeling off the wood subconsciously.

Louis isn’t home and for once Liam’s thankful. He wouldn’t be able to face his flatmate this time, not when he’s likely to get yelled at for being a dunce. Liam knows it, he knows he is. Is it a crime, though, to want to see someone happy? Is it a crime to want to see someone smile, to let them keep on smiling even when they’ve hurt you?

Louis might say it is, but then again Louis has never been in love.

“Shit,” Liam curses, whipping off his scarf and throwing it into a corner of his bedroom, boots shoved off and coat left on his clothes chair haphazardly. He pauses, huffs out a breath, and falls face-first onto his bed. “Shitting hell.”

He breathes into his pillow and tries to forget. It’s not like it works – the last five years should’ve taught him that.

 

***

 

He manages a week before he breaks. It’s like now that he’s seen Harry, he can’t stop. He went a good five years without deliberately searching his name, but this time he lasts only a week. All that work, wasted. Liam wants to punch something, or maybe watch _Toy Story_ again to forget.

He doesn’t. Instead, he types in ‘harry styles’ into Google and starts his descent into insanity.

 _You’re already insane,_ a voice suspiciously like Louis pipes up, and Liam would be worried if he wasn’t so busy scrolling through video after video of Harry, _drooling over him after all these years._

 _Shut up,_ he thinks viciously, clicking on the most popular video. The voice doesn’t say anything.

When the video starts, Harry looks closer to the Harry that Liam knew for a night that it’s almost frightening, bringing back all kinds of memories of berry cocktails and hands on waists that make Liam squeeze his eyes shut to rid himself of the images.

It’s just, Harry looks so _young_ now that Liam acknowledges he’s a person who exists and is on poster after poster around the city of London. His eyes flick to the date – the interview was taken around the very end of 2014, after Harry had released two singles to great success, his debut album due to be released beginning of February. Liam knows this because it’s his job to know. Kind of.

“–Harry Styles here, up and coming artist with his debut coming out in February.” It’s one of those radio interviews, taped, so Harry has huge headphones over his ears, and although he’s sporting a headscarf (don’t _think about it,_ Liam tells himself), his curls are flying every which way. He’s wearing a faded Rolling Stones t-shirt; ripped, like it’s been well-loved over the years. He looks impossible, like someone out of a Led Zeppelin-inspired dream.

“–my birthday, actually.” Harry’s saying, light and Northern.

“There you go, listeners, Harry Styles was born on February 1st.”

“Not sure that’s the kind of content people are listening for, George,” Harry says, eyes bright and twinkling with mirth, “Unless they’re into astrology or somethin’.”

George, the interviewer, laughs from his seat across from Harry. It’s not even a funny joke, but Liam understands first hand the way Harry can make even the corniest of punchlines seem hilarious. It’s been a week and Liam’s sure that if he’d let Harry finish his retelling of Niall chatting up the ladies in Spain and surprising the whole tour crew with his fluency, Liam would’ve been biting back a grin, struggling not to laugh. It’s a charm Liam’s never seen in anyone else.

However, as much as he might want to sit and watch Harry talk nonsense all day, Liam does actually have things to do (like avoid Louis, and maybe call Zayn), so he skips forward to the point everyone is screaming about in the comments, and what the title of the video is all about. A title he’s been carefully ignoring.

“Mate, I heard you were seen running about London with a certain country girl.” George begins, and it’s only because Liam’s focusing so intently on Harry that he notices the way his smile falls just a tad. Liam gets it, Taylor’s not the nicest person. Louis’ told him enough to gather that much.

“Runnin’ about London would be tiring, don’t you think?” Harry queries, and the grin on his face shows he’s merely riling up George, who lets out a bark of laughter. “But I know what you’re getting at, and Taylor and I are just friends. Besides,” He begins to add, straightening a bit in his chair, rubbing at his chin with a ringed hand, “I’ve been running ‘bout London with my mate Niall, and no one’s said anything about that.”

“Yeah,” George laughs, “I’m sure something’s going on there.”

“I don’t like your scepticism, George,” Harry comments, acting affronted, “Niall’s well fit, I know, but I could definitely pull him.”

“I’m not doubting that, Harry,” George responds, obviously attempting to humour the rockstar (or soon to be, at this point in time), “But it’s more the fact that you probably wouldn’t want to.”

“You barely know me,” Harry states, the smile on his face and the soft tone of it making it seem friendly instead of the undercurrent of hostility Liam’s sure Harry is feeling. Liam would be feeling it. “I might.”

“Is this you coming out on national radio, Harry Styles?” George asks, and he looks extremely interested now, leaning as far forward in his chair as he can and still remain in front of the microphone.

Harry huffs out a laugh, and his dimples are now out in full force. Liam feels a little weak, maybe, but he shoves that aside in favour of continuing to watch.

“Not so sure my manager would like it, but I guess so. What about you, George? Any secrets to tell your listeners? What did you have for breakfast?”

And that’s that, it seems, as George begins to detail what he ate that morning.

 _Effortless,_ Liam thinks with awe, _Completely effortless._

There’s something lingering in his fingertips, ready to lash out – whether it be on his phone, or his laptop, or on a punching bag. Liam just wants to say something, to rant and rage at Harry for being like this.

 _Why are you so, so, so..._ Liam can’t even put it to words, the imaginary self he’s seeing in his mind speechless against Harry’s puzzled head tilt. _Why are you so nice? Why are you so_ you? _Why are you so kind, so thoughtful?_

Why did you leave?

Liam shuts his laptop, the ball in his throat bobbing uncomfortably. He shoves the device away from him, pulling up his Twitter, abstractly thinking he might post something obscure, maybe a new lyric so he can talk about Hush’s album and not his own internal misery.

He doesn’t follow that many people and so it doesn’t take long for him to stumble across the tweet, dated yesterday.

 **Harry Styles.** @Harry_Styles  
Happy St. Patrick's Day. All the Craic and all that. H  
8:50 AM – 4 Mar 2018

Liam frowns. The replies echo his sentiment.

 **CRAIC** @harrynialler 4 Mar 2018  
@Harry_Styles it’s not even st patricks day yet smh

 **NIALL PLS FOLLOW ME** @nillywillyniall 4 Mar 2018  
@Harry_Styles wheres niall he needs to give you a good slap

 **Niall Horan** @NiallOfficial 4 Mar 2018  
@Harry_Styles Blocked !

@hazattack00 4 Mar 2018  
@Harry_Styles This is why I love you

Liam stares down at his phone. He bites the inside of his lip, the look on Harry’s face at the coffee shop burning on the inside of his eyelids. It’s been a week and Liam hasn’t given Harry a ring, hasn’t sent him a text. He hasn’t been on social media, either. Just been drumming away, playing a gig or two with some mates, trying not to write about Harry. The usual.

Harry hasn’t sent anything either, but Liam – no matter what his traitorous heart feels – was expecting that. He all but ran away from Harry, so desperate he was to be away from him and his dimples. It’s better this way. Harry will forget about him again and everything can go back to normal.

Somehow, he still ends up liking Niall’s tweet.

“What the hell?” Liam whispers to himself when he sees it, feeling betrayed by his own fingers. At this rate he’ll need to delete Twitter. _Christ._

His phone dings at him, and Liam almost drops it in surprise, too lost in thought. There aren’t many people who’d text him at eleven in the morning on a Monday, though, so he frowns down at his mobile as he brings up the app. He feels himself pale when he sees the sender.

 _In the studio!_ Harry writes, and Liam’s breath hitches when he sees there’s a picture attached, _What do you think? xx_

He’s behind the drums in the photo, sticks in both hands and a cheesy grin on his face. He looks like a big kid in his white t-shirt and black skinny jeans. The famous cross necklace dangles from his neck and his hair curls over his shoulders, a little greasy. Liam both loves and hates everything about it.

Why’s Harry sending him this? Why’s Harry still bloody talking to him when Liam’s made a mess of it not once, not twice, but _three_ times now? Why won’t Harry bloody well _leave him alone?_

He locks his phone, puts it away. He can’t think about it right now, not when he still has to call Zayn, not when he still needs to make breakfast, not when he’s due at the studio in an hour, not when he still has to do anything but reply to Harry _fucking_ Styles.

When he turns up to record later, he ignores the quirked eyebrow of Eleanor and the pleading look of Sophia. Instead, he takes off his hoodie, rolls up his joggers, puts on his over-ear headphones, and waits to start. The beat will get him through – the beat will help him forget, the rhythm will drive his thoughts and his actions. It might be ever-changing, but at least it’s constant; and Liam needs consistency right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got track lists and album art for both of Harry's albums, as well as the debut album from Hush. I'll probably create playlists, so keep a look out! Comment below and let me know what you think :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANYWAY, I spent the whole day writing and now my wrists and fingers hurt so... not sure I'll be as quick updating tomorrow but we'll see!

**2013**

 

The silence would’ve been awkward, if it had been with anyone other than Harry. Instead, Liam finds his cheeks heating up a little at Harry’s piercing gaze as nothing more is said, absently biting his bottom lip and missing the heated flash in Harry’s eyes at the movement.

“Two Stellas.” Liam requests absently, jerking into action once he realises the girl beside him has tottered off, pints in hand. He’s still looking at Harry, though, whose dimples grow with every passing second, his lips looking sinfully cheeky smirking as they are.

“For me? Already?” He says, tone low and suggestive, “Aren’t _you_ eager?”

Liam coughs, cheeks darkening. He feels suddenly as if he’s got two left feet, unable to find footing and balance himself just right.

“No, uhh,” he stutters, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck nervously, wiping away sweat newly formed there, “My mate needs another.”

Harry’s head tilts a little to the side in curiosity, and Liam’s eyes flick to his neck, cords of lean muscle looking too tempting, jawline sharp and bitable. He barely stops himself from shaking his head to rid it of the thoughts – better he not embarrass himself more. Liam is older, he can play it cool in front of someone who could probably take him out with a few well chosen words in that surprisingly deep, northern accent.

“Hmm,” he hums, and takes a sip of the drink in his own hand – no longer the beer from before but now a red cocktail, seemingly fruity – with more staring at Liam.

For lack of anything else to say or do, Liam jerks his head toward his friends as he collects his beers in one hand, rummaging through his wallet for the notes to pay.

Harry slaps down enough to cover him, and the bartender takes it without question or even a raised eyebrow.

“I’m Harry,” he introduces himself. Liam wants to say _I know_ , wants to ask _Is that short for anything?_ or maybe even say _Your voice is some kind of lovely._

He doesn’t say any of that, though, just nods with a small smile and gives a quiet _Thanks_ in relation to the drinks before he turns back toward his friends.

“Liam!” Ellie greets him with a smile as he approaches, and then her eyes widen. Liam frowns, pawing at his unshaven face to get rid of whatever seems to be on there, whatever’s making her look so floored.

He’s still pawing as he hands over her beer, which she takes numbly, but she’s not really looking at him anymore. Instead, she’s looking just to the right of him. Liam turns, expecting an angry patron; someone they used to know, maybe; or even someone absurd like Liam’s ex-girlfriend Danielle.

“Hello!” Harry chirps, having followed Liam back to his friends. Liam’s mouth drops open in shock, and he realises he’s gaping like a fish but he can’t quite seem to shut his mouth and recover like a normal person would.

“I’m Harry,” Harry introduces himself again, exuberant smile on his face as he shoves a hand forward, rings glistening in the warm light of the bar, “And you’re Liam’s friend...”

He trails off, eyes still bright despite the expectant expression on his face as he looks at Ellie.

“Oh,” Ellie says, seemingly recovering much better than Liam, who’s still staring at Harry like he’s an alien fresh off of a spaceship, “I’m Ellie.” She wipes a hand on her skirt hurriedly, the condensation of her beer making things a little difficult, before clasping Harry’s hand in her own and shaking, not particularly firm given her shock.

“What a lovely name.” Harry compliments, and Liam’s eyes almost bug out of his head when he sees a light flush take over Ellie’s cheeks. Crass and fearless Ellie doesn’t blush, let alone at anyone other than her boyfriend Andy. Liam’s boggled.

Andy’s been gazing at the whole thing like he’s waiting for the punchline. Liam’s managed to scrape up his jaw from the floor, but there’s something stuck in his throat which makes it hard to speak.

Harry doesn’t seem fazed, though, turning his intent gaze upon Andy, who seems to mentally shake himself free of whatever joke he thought he was witnessing and shake Harry’s hand as well, firm and manly.

“Absolutely sick set, mate,” Andy says, pulling on his beer absently once he has his hand back, “Almost creamed myself.”

Harry, who’d been taking a leisurely sip of his cocktail, chokes. He’s spluttering, and Liam suddenly has a hand hovering over his back in case of _something_ when his laugh reaches past the cocktail caught up in his throat and bursts loudly from his mouth, a surprised cackle that he doesn’t seem at all ashamed of.

Liam sneaks a look at Ellie, who seems as equally bewildered as he is.

“Well,” Harry starts, his voice a little raspy considering he’d almost inhaled a whole cocktail a few seconds prior, “I can definitely say that’s the first time I’ve heard that. At least,” he adds after a slight pause, sly, his eyes flicking over to Liam with a heat that makes his stomach squirm, “from a straight guy.”

Andy merely shrugs, not seeming to understand that Harry’s eyes haven’t left Liam’s face for a few long seconds and that Liam almost jumps at the brush of Harry’s hand against his side. Harry doesn’t seem to notice, or more likely simply takes it in his stride as he shifts a little closer, hand thankfully back at his own side.

“Careful, dear,” Ellie says, sarcasm dripping from her voice, “We’ve talked about this.”

“Oh?” prompts Harry, cheeky grin on his face. His cheeks are a little pink, his lips almost red from the berry flavour of his drink, and Liam can’t look away. Though he forces himself to do just that when Harry’s eyes glance over at him again. Liam redirects his stare to the rim of Ellie’s beer bottle instead, biting his own lips raw at the heat in his veins. This is unlike Liam; Liam, who usually goes home with people simply because he’s lonely, not because he’s feeling anything like fire in his blood; Liam, who’s probably had a total of three one night stands in his life with no desire for more; Liam, who broke up with Dani because he was falling in love with her and was almost certain that she’d never even entertained the idea. The fact that Harry’s innate charm and surprisingly curly hair are leaving him breathless worries him, but Liam’s never been one to over-think things – instead, he pushes the reasons for his feelings aside and simply _feels_ them.

He’d forgotten what it was like, to want someone this much.

“Andy has a surprisingly long list of men who he’d go gay for,” Ellie explains with an eye roll, though the fond look she shoots her boyfriend of three years belies her true feelings, “And no matter how many times I tell him there’s such a thing as bisexuality, he doesn’t get it.”

“Look,” Andy tries to explain, and he comes across a little hunted. Liam raises an eyebrow, wondering how many times they’ve probably had this exact conversation, and not necessarily wanting to know why, “David Beckham is some kind of god, alright? Who _wouldn’t_ say yes?” A large sweep of his hands splashes a little beer across the table, but Andy’s too invested in his rant to notice. “Harry,” Andy says with the kind of familiarity he’s good at, even if he’s only met someone five minutes ago, “Back me up here, mate.”

Harry’s trying not to grin too wide, Liam can tell. Instead, he shakes his head, wayward curls falling over his headband and attracting Liam’s stare. His green eyes seem awfully glassy for someone who’s probably not had more than a few standard drinks. Liam’s mesmerised.

“I’m not one to ask,” he explains, blowing a stray curl out of his face, “I’m afraid I’m too far left on the Kinsey scale to exactly have an objective opinion.”

On anyone else, it would sound practised, or stilted, like they’d thought about the comment for minutes before boldly blurting it out and hoping for acceptance. On Harry, though, it’s said like it simply _is_ ; a fact that can’t be changed or altered or obscured.

Liam might, just a little bit, fall right then and there.

Andy scoffs, shrugging off Ellie’s patronising and placating pats to his shoulder, a playful scowl on his face as he mulishly drinks from his bottle.

“And you?” Harry murmurs through soft lips, shifting closer still to him. Liam turns his head only slightly, refusing to dedicate his whole attention to the warm body beside him. His friends are bickering playfully, and Liam’s staring at them despite the familiar scene. “Does Becks make you blush?”

Liam, despite himself, blushes.

“Nah,” Andy chimes in, and Liam nearly glares at him. He has no subtlety, and yet Liam’s almost positive he has no clue what’s going on between Liam and Harry right now, this careful edge they might be about to topple over, their balance precarious, “Liam might be smack bang in the middle, but, heathen that he is, he’s never taken a shine to Becks.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow, and the fact he’s turned fully to him now doesn’t escape Liam’s notice.

Nor does the hand that settles hotly on Liam’s waist, squeezing slightly through his jacket. He barely manages to stop himself from jumping, fixing his gaze on the couple seated behind and to the left of Andy, arguing lowly at their table.

And so the night goes on, but Harry’s hand doesn’t wander from his hips.

Liam chokes out a few sentences every now and then, but he’s too distracted by the warmth of Harry’s hand and the way it squeezes periodically, alternating between hard and soft in a rhythm that’s making the blood leave Liam’s brain and rush south.

The thing that’s stopping him short, however, is not that Harry’s probably the most attractive person Liam’s seen since Dani; it’s definitely not that Harry’s interested in Liam, because Liam understands physical chemistry – no, the thing that’s pulling him up right before the finish line is the fact that Harry’s not staring at Liam’s lips with a bored expression, or running his hands down Liam’s arms with a preoccupied squeeze. Harry seems genuinely interested in what Liam has to say – intrigued by his life as a drummer, and empathetic when Liam mentions his nagging sisters. He even gives his own stories about an intrusive Gemma, four years older and always texting Harry pictures of guys and asking him to rate them.

Harry says it all with crinkles around his eyes, a laugh on his lips. Harry loves his sister, Liam can tell, and Liam’s heart clenches a tiny bit at the fact.

“She never sends me pictures of hot _girls_ , Liam,” whines Harry, lips even more red as he sips at another fruity cocktail. He plucks the strawberry from the rim of his glass and sucks on it, his plump cupid’s bow framing the fruit tantalisingly. Liam swallows thickly, quickly taking a measured gulp of his beer to cover up his reaction. His cheeks feel a little hot, and the hand at his waist is a comforting presence now. They’re close, Andy and Ellie embroiled in a heated discussion with the couple behind them – Liam thinks it might be about the effect of Buffy The Vampire Slayer on modern sci-fi, but he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to get involved; he wouldn’t on your average day, but especially not when Harry is right in front of him, the tips of his boots brushing the sides of Liam’s, his face awfully close for someone who’s not about to kiss him.

“Well,” Liam croaks out, cursing the beer in his hand and its inability to help him in any sort of way, “We can’t have it all.”

“I suppose not,” Harry acquiesces, pouting. Liam’s staring, he knows. “But bi means _at least_ two, so I don’t know why she thinks I don’t want to appreciate pretty women, as well.”

“What? Like Julia Roberts?” Harry looks flummoxed for a second before a massive grin breaks out on his face, and he gives that loud cackle Liam’s been wanting to hear since that first conversation. Liam’s eyes follow his head as it tilts back, his spine curving a little to bring their thighs closer together but their chests further apart.

“Yes, Liam,” Harry waggles his eyebrows once he’s recovered, “Exactly like Julia Roberts. _Jesus,_ ” Harry’s accent seems more pronounced after the drinks he’s had, and Liam tries not to let his intonations give him goosebumps, “Who knew you were so cheeky?”

Liam flushes, but he knows there’s a small smile on his face, pleased and waiting for something he can’t exactly name.

There’s a short moment of comfortable silence, Harry’s eyes warm as he gazes upon Liam.

“Do you want to–?” Liam blurts out. He makes a vague sort of gesture, biting his lip nervously at Harry’s perplexed frown. He clears his throat. “Back to mine?”

Harry’s face clears of confusion right away, a smile taking its place. It’s gentle and familiar, and Liam gets the growing sense that what they’re about to agree on isn’t going to be like anything he’s ever experienced before.

“‘Course.” Harry murmurs, his hand at Liam’s waist clenching before it drags slowly down to his thigh, leaving with a promise of something that has Liam fighting off a shiver.

Liam looks into green eyes, dark with the weight of his words, and commits them to memory.

“Let’s go to mine.” Harry offers, his smile widening.

 

***

 

**2018**

 

He replies the next day, because how can he not? Liam’s weak. It’s better off that he accepts this now than try to fool himself any longer.

 _Hah !_ he returns as he walks into the studio, hands trembling only slightly, _nice try!_

“Liam!” Sophia calls out once he’s past the reception and walking into the sound studio, a few of the engineers lingering around, tuning up the equipment and going over the sheets of music, Eleanor’s scribbles noticeable in bright pink. “You brought me hot chocolate?” The drink leaves Liam’s hands and he smiles as she takes a sip, her smile soft and thankful. “You’re the best, you know that?”

Eleanor sits next to the sound desk, eyes hard in their perusal of his other hand.

“For you, too, Eleanor.” Liam says, shoving the other drink towards her.

“I don’t drink hot chocolate,” Eleanor says coldly, ignoring his outstretched arm and turning back around, placing headphones over her ears. Liam sees Sophia frown deeply from beside him, that grateful expression wiped clean. Disappointment lingers in his gut. He tried. Seems like today’s not a good day for them.

“Last day!” Sophia reminds him, turning her back on Eleanor and giving him an over-bright smile. Liam gives a stilted one back but it seems to convince her, her own softening down to something genuine. “Can’t believe we’ll be finished with our debut album.”

“We’ve still got a week of production,” Eleanor snaps, turning back around. Seems like she wasn’t listening to anything after all, and tendrils of irritation work their way up Liam’s spine. _Breathe. You’re the mediator._ “Don’t get too excited.” Her accent makes her sound like she’s got... well, Liam’s not going to say it out loud, or even think it. But he waits for the usual teasing, the warm affection effusing from every word.

Sophia ignores her.

“We’ve got those interviews day after next, yeah?” She says instead, still speaking to Liam. Eleanor’s face shows her surprise, hurt lingering at the corners of her eyes. Liam looks away, uncomfortable. “You coming?”

Liam raises his eyebrows, taking a sip of Eleanor’s abandoned hot chocolate because he still paid for it, even if it’s not his preferred drink. Surprisingly, considering his love of chocolate most days.

“Isn’t that a band members thing?” He asks, eyes flicking over to Eleanor before going back to Sophia, her long brown hair layered choppy and making her round face a little more angular. She looks proper rock chick, and the thought makes him want to giggle. Soft, kind Sophia... well, he supposes it’s part of their brand, or whatever those label reps were talking about at that meeting the other week.

“Liam,” Sophia huffs, pushing him in the shoulder hard enough he stumbles back a step, “I know we started out just the two of us, but you’re not an idiot. You signed a bloody contract. Of course you’re a member!”

Eleanor gets up, her chair rolling back a fair way as she stalks from the room. Liam sees her walk into to the booth through the glass that separates them. She flips through some of the sheets they’ve got near the mics, the bright pink tips of her hair brushing against paper.

“Right,” Liam replies, trying not to stir up anything. He might be a member, but he’s almost certain that Eleanor doesn’t like that new development, “Thanks for that.”

Sophia rolls her eyes, sculls the rest of her drink, and throws it in the bin.

“Sorry about her,” She apologises quietly as their producer walks in, talking to one of the interns, “I don’t know what’s going on.”

Liam does, but somehow he figures it’s not his place to say. “Don’t worry about it, Soph.”

They manage to finish the last song by late evening, just in time for the three of them – Eleanor gives Liam a sharp look when he sits down on the couch with them – to be online as the first single comes out, finished a few days ago mostly due to the late nights had by Eleanor. It’s her song, after all, even if the music video is an animated caricature of the three of them performing, intercut with a female protagonist. It’s very artistic, and meant Liam didn’t have to show his face – so they were all happy, really.

 **Hush** @HushMusic  
Check out our first single, Make Me Wanna Die [https://t.co/BFQSZwSfbF](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txBfhpm1jI0)  
12:01 AM – 7 Mar 2018

 **MAKE ME WANNA DIE!** @hushbaby 7 Mar 2018  
whahthtththt the fuckcL!K!!! #MakeMeWannaDie

 **True Prue** @pruedence1 7 Mar 2018  
#MakeMeWannaDie what a tune!

 **B** @billator 7 Mar 2018  
What is this angry girl rock? Ugh, no. #MakeMeWannaDie

 **ExS** @norphias 7 Mar 2018  
ok but what is this song about [eyes emoji] #MakeMeWannaDie

“Seems... positive.” Liam states, not really understanding half of it.

“Fuck yeah, it’s angry girl rock. Fuck off, Bill.” Eleanor says, and Sophia is grinning, their previous tiff forgotten.

“Darling,” Sophia starts, her voice put on and grating. Liam chuckles, shaking his head. “Fuck off. Misogyny is last season’s Burberry.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes, but the hint of a smirk is at her lips. Liam breathes out a relieved sigh.

Liam’s phone pings, and he sees Zayn’s sent him a message. Not surprising considering he’s a bit of a night owl.

 _Pez loves the song,_ he texts, and Liam grins down at his mobile, _I don’t mind it.. very eleanor. Think you’ve got something good here Liam :)_

 _thx mate_ , Liam replies, _catch up son?_

 _Sure dad,_ Zayn answers, and Liam rolls his eyes, his two bandmates still scouring through the Twitter replies and liking their favourite tweets from the official band account. _Haha you free tomorrow? thursday i mean_

Louis is out on Thursday, writing some material for The Chainsmokers again. Their new album isn’t due for a few months, at least, but they’re releasing some promotional single that they signed Louis on for. That’s all Liam managed to gather from Louis’ roundabout ramblings – he’s awfully good at distracting from your original question if he doesn’t necessarily want to answer. Liam’s learned that over the years.

_just finishd record so yeh!! come over whenevr_

_That ok?_ Zayn replies a minute or so later, and Liam’s heart twinges at the way things are. He remembers years ago, coming home to Louis and Zayn smoking together on the couch (much to Liam’s disapproval), or the both of them wrestling each other over something inconsequential. He remembers bright grins, fond nipple twists, hands grazing over new matching tattoos. It makes Liam sad that things as easy as Zayn and Louis can fall apart so quickly.

 _oh wait,_ Liam starts, remembering now that he’s glimpsing his bandmates bickering good-naturedly to his right, _ive got an interview in the morn. come over aftr lunch!_

He’s unused to the make-up on his face when they’re facing some woman from Sugarscape the next morning, Liam crammed against the armrest as Eleanor leans against him, her hair almost in his face. She’s gesturing wildly, explaining the concept behind the music video as Sophia argues with her, fond smile on her face. She loves to rile her up, because then Eleanor’s accent gets especially strong and Sophia can mock her lovingly for it. It’s all very weird and Liam doesn’t understand it.

He’s leaning on his left hand, head tilted to watch them when the interviewer catches his eyes and smiles.

“Liam,” she says loudly, interrupting Eleanor and Sophia’s tangent of bickering. They both quiet down, Eleanor shifting so her back is no longer to Liam. She’s been friendlier today, though Liam suspects it’s simply off the back of the success of the single. It got many more views than they anticipated, and Liam’s proud. He knew it was good, but it’s always nice to have some validation – even if they got some hurtful comments that made Sophia’s eyes go all stormy.

In that moment, someone’s phone goes off, a loud message tone alerting to a text. Liam freezes, dread seizing his heart.

“Has one of you got your phone on?” The interviewer questions, smirk on her painted lips. Liam winces, guiltily bringing it out of his pocket to put it on silent.

“Sorry, sorry,” Liam says, “It’s me. I forgot to...” He trails off, the name on his screen making his throat close up.

“A girl?” The interviewer pushes, and Liam tries not to jerk in surprise, forgetting for a short moment that he’s in front of a camera and has a microphone on his lapel.

“Uhh, no...” Liam replies, shoving his phone back into his pocket after clicking it over onto silent.

“Was that Harry?” Eleanor asks rudely, leaning away as if she’s leaned in to look, and Liam gives her a sharp look. She’s not usually this smug, but her face says otherwise. Liam really, _intensely_ dislikes her in that moment. He shoots Sophia a look, too, because she’s the one who probably told her. Probably found out from looking at his phone one day, the little sneak.

“Harry?” The interviewer probes, leaning forward in her seat like she’s caught onto something.

“Yeah,” Eleanor starts, and Liam sinks further into this couch they’re sat on, trying not to bring attention to the growing flush in his stubbled cheeks, “Harry Styles has been a real darling, followed us all and even tweeted about the single.”

Liam’s head snaps to her, a frown on his face quicker than he can think to do it. _What?_

“Ah, yes,” the interviewer says, as if everyone knows about this. Liam does _not_ know about this. “I was going to ask about this.”

“I, for one, am flattered,” Eleanor says, grinning cheekily, “I mean, I wrote that part for Liam.”

“What are you on about?” Liam asks her, still frowning. Eleanor rolls her eyes, brings out her own phone. Sophia looks on, face clear and pleasant. Liam feels like this is all one big joke, unease swirling in his chest.

“Here,” She says, shoving her phone into his lax hands. Liam almost drops it but recovers at the last second, looking at the screen in front of him.

Harry Styles. Retweeted  
**Abby** @sophlianor  
when @Real_Liam_Payne sings in #MakeMeWannaDie he makes me wanna die #solovely  
3:22 PM – 8 Mar 2018

 _Oh, God._ Liam thinks, heart beginning to race in time with his thoughts, quick and fleeting, _Why did he do this? Why won’t he leave me alone? Oh, God, this is awful. I’m going to be in so much trouble – LOUIS IS GOING TO KILL ME – Christ, what a mess–_

Liam clears his throat, looks up at the expectant interviewer, and gives what’s bound to look like a shaky smile.

“That’s,” He coughs, clears his throat again, “That’s nice, yeah.”

The interviewer raises an eyebrow, mouth opening to ask something Liam’s not sure he can answer truthfully.

“So I’m sure he just let Liam know he liked the single,” Sophia butts in, and Liam’s never been more thankful for her in his life, “Right, Liam?”

“Yeah,” Liam croaks, “Exactly. Nice lad.”

They move on, thankfully, though the interviewer tries to steer the conversation back to Harry a fair few times. Liam’s close-lipped, though, too nervous to say the wrong thing, like _“Slept together five years ago, still in love with him. Good lad, he’s a nice chap.”_ ; he’s cringing internally at the thought, mumbling his way through a few directed questions but mostly letting the girls take them on. He’s not really a member, anyway.

When they’re all away from prying eyes later, the make-up feeling flaky on Liam’s face as he walks into his flat, Liam opens up his phone again – too scared to have done it on the tube, where it felt like the old lady next to him was bound to read whatever incriminating text Harry sent.

 _Wonderful song, Liam. Tell Eleanor she’s very talented xx_ There’s another text, one that must’ve come in after Liam turned his mobile to silent.

_I’ve got a few of my own to share, if you want to have a listen. You should come to the studio tomorrow xx_

Liam swallows heavily, limbs feeling like anvils as the phone sits in his palms, deadly in its potential for ruin.

It’s hurting Liam, bit by bit, to keep on doing this. But what choice does he have? He’s already proved himself incapable of telling Harry the truth; he’s incapable when it’ll mean those green eyes will go light with pity, brow furrowed in concern for Liam’s well-being. He can’t take that, but he also can’t take this intrigue in Liam’s life; the way Harry is needling him, pushing and pushing and pushing. Liam’s not strong enough to withstand it, and it is the exact opposite of Louis’ suggestion of closure. How can he get closure when Harry is all he hears about, when Harry won’t stop reminding him that he exists, and that he wants to talk to Liam?

He remembers Harry’s imploring eyes at that party, dark with intent, and doesn’t know how he’ll reject Harry if it comes to it. For his own health, he’ll have to – even if the thought of touching those tattoos again gives him goosebumps, the thought of running his hands through Harry’s hair making him shiver. Rejecting Harry will be a necessary evil if he keeps on like this; bugging Liam, wanting to spend time with him, doing the kinds of things that would woo anyone else.

 _Spend time with him,_ some dark part of him suggests, _get over him that way._

 _Maybe,_ that Louis voice finally pipes up, hesitant but considering. Liam hates that he’s differentiating his own thoughts but he can’t help it. _Closure_ can _be had through over-exposure..._

Liam stops that line of thought immediately. No. He won’t do that. He won’t give Harry the satisfaction. Harry wronged him once, and in a way Liam’s getting his petty revenge.

 _thx,_ Liam replies with after he’s washed the make-up off his face and changed into joggers and a t-shirt, _busy tmrrw have fun!_

He leaves his phone lying on his bed. He’s just finished making himself a sandwich when a knock sounds at the door. Liam opens it, bread almost falling out of his mouth.

Zayn engulfs him in a hug, tight and unrelenting, and Liam almost chokes on his food.

“Sorry, sorry,” Zayn says, clapping Liam on the back, “Missed ya, idiot.” His accent makes Liam smile, finally swallowing his mouthful.

“You, too, Zaynie.” Liam says, closing the door behind his friend as Zayn plops down onto the couch, sighing.

“Busy morning?” Liam asks, grabbing a bag of crisps from the pantry cupboard and depositing them onto the scuffed coffee table.

Zayn shakes his head when Liam offers some, but Liam sends him a raised eyebrow and he acquiesces, grumbling a little like it’s a chore to indulge in crisps as a fashion model. Liam rolls his eyes. Zayn’s such a grouch, sometimes.

He looks Zayn over, sees the eyeliner around his brown eyes, lashes long and dark. He’s got an over-sized jumper on, something knitted and warm. His hair’s a little stiff with wax, probably, and his jeans are ripped. He’s come from a shoot, Liam guesses.

“Had that Vogue spread,” Zayn explains, scrunching his nose up, “Been up since three.”

“Oh,” Liam says, feeling concerned, “Was that the Shakespeare one you told me about the other week?”

Zayn nods, shoving a large handful of crisps into his mouth. Liam tamps down a grin.

“Absolutely sick, Liam,” Zayn goes on to explain, wiping his hands on his jeans, getting crumbs all over himself. Zayn may look elegant on camera, but he’s definitely not elegant when he’s sitting on Liam’s couch after a nearly ten-hour work day. Liam knows. He used to live with him. “But glitter is fuckin’ impossible to get rid of.”

Liam laughs, feels his eyes crinkle up in mirth. Zayn grins back, shoving more crisps in his mouth.

They talk about any number of things after that, conversation flowing easily back and forth. Liam’s known Zayn for years, meeting him only a month or two after he met Louis, so it’s easy talking to him now, even if there’s a comfortable silence every now and then. They move on from crisps to leftover noodles Liam cooked up the other day, Netflix playing in the background as they chat.

Liam hasn’t looked at the time in a while, but Louis’ still not due home until late evening when there are keys in their front door, muffled cursing when the lock jams like it tends to do.

“Guess who finished early, Liam,” Louis starts, juggling all of his bags as he enters, kicking the door closed behind him with a foot, “and is absolutely ready to get smashed and watch _Say Yes To The_ –” He looks up and stops short, one of his bags falling to the floor with a _thump_.

There’s quiet in the flat save for _Daredevil_ playing in the background, Matt Murdock admitting to Foggy Nelson that he’s a masked vigilante.

“Lou,” Zayn says, stilted, standing quickly. He walks around the couch but stops himself from walking toward Louis, halting with a jerk a few metres away.

“You’re home early,” states Liam from the couch, neck turned, panic growing inside him. The two of them haven’t been in the same room since Zayn left, neck straining as he yelled and Louis threw things at him. Liam’s been so careful – it’s been a year, at least. Maybe a little less. _Fuck._ “It’s not even nine yet.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, voice quiet as he stares at Zayn, “Well, we finished early.”

Silence, once again. Liam clears his throat, opens his mouth to start talking, fill the air with anything to stop the fuse from blowing. He’s too late, though, and Louis’ voice rings out clear and cold, dangerous with the way he speaks lowly, eyes turning hard.

“I think you should leave.”

Zayn’s eyes narrow, going from soft to calculating in a matter of seconds. Liam winces, closing his eyes in resignation. He stands, shuffles around the couch in case he needs to hold someone back.

“Me?” Zayn spits out, hands balling into fists, “I was here first.”

Louis drops his things, steps forward as if to shove Zayn but Liam gets there first, pushing a hand out to keep him back.

“Lou,” Liam urges quietly, “Not now.”

“Why _not_ now, Liam?” Louis says, upbeat, with a smile like a shark’s forming on his face, “Zayn’s been running away for a year. Why not talk _now?_ ”

“Running away?” Zayn exclaims, and his eyes flash. Liam inhales deeply, trying not to get angry himself, “You kicked me out!”

“Yeah, I did!” Louis yells, and Liam’s ears hurt a little given his proximity, arm still pushing back against Louis’ shoulders to keep him from physically attacking one of Liam’s best friends, “And I’d do it again!”

“Yeah?” Zayn pushes out through gritted teeth, “And I’d leave again, wouldn’t I? There’s nothing here for me, anyway.” Louis rears back at that before a sneer takes over his face.

“Fuck off, Zayn. Truly.”

“Zee,” Liam interjects loudly, tired, pleading with his eyes, “Maybe you should go.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything, merely picks up the jumper he discarded somewhere between meals and shoves his feet into his boots, zipping them up angrily as Liam drags Louis toward the couch and away from the entrance way.

He says nothing as he slams the door behind him. Louis sags like his strings have been cut and Liam pulls him into his shoulders, arms around his waist to keep him steady.

“He didn’t mean it,” consoles Liam, because he knows Zayn and he knows that he saw leaving as the only way he could make something of himself, be successful in his own right, “And neither did you.”

Louis shoves away from him, picking up his bags stiffly and stalking to his room, door slamming in his wake. Liam sighs, and simply cleans up the mess he and Zayn made.

He gets the call as he’s wiping down the counters in the kitchen, gathering crumbs and washing them down the sink. He rushes to his bedroom, hands damp, to catch it on the last ring.

“Hello?” He answers breathily, not having had time to read the caller.

“Liam? It’s Lucy,” She explains, and Liam frowns. Why he’s getting a call from his manager at this time, he doesn’t know. She usually saves business calls for business hours. “Do you have five minutes?”

“Yeah,” he says, sitting down heavily on his bed, rubbing his forehead tiredly. After the drama with Zayn he just wants to go to sleep. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing terrible, don’t worry,” Lucy explains, and he imagines her sweeping her sleek, straight, red hair over her shoulder, “The interview went well today. I know we haven’t trained the three of you yet, but you handled the Harry Styles story with grace.”

Liam gulps, thanks her in a small voice.

“The label wants you to participate in all future interviews, actually,” explains Lucy, and Liam’s brows furrow, “They were pleased with the dynamic today, and believe your presence will offset the,” She pauses, and her voice takes on a mocking tone, like she’s not pleased, “feminist undertones of the band.”

“What?” Liam chokes out, a laugh bubbling in his throat, “That’s silly.”

“I know,” Lucy sighs, and she sounds relieved – like she wasn’t totally sure he’d react the way he did, “But the higher-ups were getting nervous about some of the comments on the new song. Apparently Hush is too brash, too in your face, for a girl band.”

“That’s the whole point,” Liam tells her, thinking of the way Eleanor is unabashedly herself, even if it’s unpleasant. He thinks of Sophia, who gave up on trying to impress others long ago. He thinks about how they fit so well together because they both don’t bother with pretence. “It’s like a Riot Grrrl revival.”

“I know,” Lucy’s smiling through the phone, it feels like, but Liam’s still caught up in ‘too brash’, “Just go along with it for now. Sophia told me she considers you part of the band, anyway. Shouldn’t be too much of a hardship, yeah?” There’s barely a breath before Lucy barrels on, sounding enthused now, “And this’ll be really good for your name, get you out there. If Hush doesn’t work out, you’ll be able to get more jobs on your reputation alone. So,” Hesitation, nerves seeping into her tone, “Be careful with what you say, alright? Just be yourself.”

He’s still reeling over it an hour later, showered and in bed, Louis blaring Brand New from his new speakers a room over. The invitation to the label party in two weeks is ringing in his ears, and, as Jesse Lacey screams about throwing the fight, Liam vies to be on his best behaviour.

They spend the next few weeks having meetings about promo and branding in the lead up to the album release, and doing an assortment of interviews – Liam easily ignores the headlines like ‘Hush drummer gets text from Harry Styles!’, and the fact that his follower count on Twitter just keeps rising and rising. His notifications are off; he barely goes on there. The others are more excited about their newfound success, and the three of them film the music video for _[Here And Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vYmlnl5U_lQ) _ with a new kind of energy, singing into the camera and screaming at each other as they trash someone’s house. It’s cathartic, in a way, and so when Liam’s sent an outfit to wear to the party – black suit coupled with a white shirt, no collar, a white pocket square horizontal on his breast – after a haircut, he’s surprisingly amiable about it. It’s not what he’d usually wear, but he supposes he fits less into the punk aspect of their band and they’re taking advantage.

“Don’t you look classy,” Eleanor snarks when he gets into the car called for them; but the rise of the apples of her cheeks lets him know she’s being nice, not condescending. “Meanwhile we’re stuck in this.” She gestures down at herself, scoffing.

Eleanor’s sporting a black suit, but there’s very obviously nothing underneath her jacket. It’s patterned, and some of it glistens in the lights coming through the car window, other parts of it dull and flat. She’s got rings all over her fingers and a necklace that reminds Liam of his sisters’ 90’s wardrobes from when they were kids.

“Very... gothic,” He comments, seeing her dark eye make-up, “Looks good, though.”

Sophia grins at Eleanor, like she’s happy Liam said the same thing she did. He notices the way she’s pulling down on her red tartan skirt, ripped Ramones t-shirt hidden by her studded leather jacket. She’s wearing thigh-high boots, and Liam looks away as quickly as he can. He may not like her that way, but he’s not blind. Besides, Sophia looks uncomfortable. She’s normally one for black skinny jeans and baggy t-shirts, so he’s sure she feels exposed and his ogling would be insensitive.

Liam’s eyes are watering a bit by the time they get inside, the flashes of cameras something he’s not used to. They head to the bar straight away and down a vodka shot before going for drinks they can spend more time on. Sophia drags them around the room, much to Eleanor’s grumbling, and Liam’s having a good time before he spills his drink over someone, turning and apologising profusely.

She’s wearing a satin dress, the silver stark against her dark skin. Her hair’s curly, ringlets down her shoulders, and Liam’s stuttering through an introduction.

“We’re on the same label,” Normani explains, lifting an eyebrow and gesturing around them, “Hence the party.”

“Of course,” Liam stumbles through his words, red blossoming in his cheeks, “I know who you are, just wasn’t sure you knew me.”

Normani smiles behind her drink.

“Mani!” A voice calls, and they both turn towards it. There’s a shock of blonde hair, and suddenly a man shorter than Liam with bright blue eyes is at Normani’s side, “Where’d you go?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Away from you,” she says, pushing her drink into his hands. He takes it, gulps down a mouthful. Liam frowns, looking between them.

“Is he bothering you? Mate,” Liam shifts to look at the man, familiarity prickling at the back of his mind.

“Liam,” Normani interrupts his perusal, fighting down a smile, “It’s fine. This is Niall.”

Oh. Niall.

“Hey, mate.” Niall greets him, moving the drink to his left hand to shove a hand out at Liam. Liam takes it, trying to breathe through his nose calmly. Normani takes the drink from Niall and walks away with a smile. Liam’s stumped.

“Hey,” Liam says, fidgeting a little on the spot. He needs another drink to occupy his hands. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty well, mate. Heard your single – Harry wouldn’t shut up about it – and it’s a cracker. Love that angry girl rock thing you’ve got going on.”

“Err, thanks,” Liam says, trying not to cringe at the exact phrasing that seems to be following them around, “Even though I’m a male.”

Niall shrugs like that’s inconsequential, a grin on his face.

“How’s,” Liam starts, searching for ways to avoid this conversation but not really knowing enough to ask, “How’s Harry’s album going? He said he was recording.”

“It’s good, yeah,” Niall’s eyes rove over Liam’s face, like he’s looking for something in particular. Liam’s just sweating a little, his suit feeling out of place next to Niall’s button down and dark jeans, “Writing was hard, but it’s always been for that lad. We’re mostly in the recording stage now, putting together the melodies and arrangements.”

Liam nods, familiar with the process even if Harry’s is undeniably longer and more complex, the kind of process a well-known artist will prolong to get things just right. Hush spent a few weeks and that was that – they didn’t have the studio for that long, being a junior artist on their label’s list, and their kind of music doesn’t need a lot of production like Liam imagines Harry’s slow, intimate rock needs.

“I need another drink.” Liam states and looks at Niall expectantly, hoping he’ll say his goodbyes.

“Perfect! I’ll come with, I’m dying for a beer.” He claps Liam on the shoulder, pushing him in the direction of the bar.

They grab their drinks, making small talk about music as they make their way to an area they can stand in. Liam’s lost his bandmates, but he’s sure they’re fine – Sophia’s always been better socially than he is, and Liam’s not ignorant enough to think Eleanor’s left her side in a situation like this.

“So Mani acts like she hates me but actually she’s all about the Irish charm, really,” Niall explains, grinning, “Hence the smiles. Can’t miss ‘em, mate.”

“Right,” Liam says, sipping at his gin and tonic. He feels like he’s going to need the spirits to get through this conversation.

It’s not like Niall’s mean, or awkward, or any of that. It’s precisely because he’s the opposite of those things that Liam’s struggling – Niall’s perfectly happy to continue talking when anybody else would have left long ago in the face of their conversation partner being Liam. Liam wonders whether Niall remembers him from The Borderline.

 _Definitely not,_ Liam thinks to himself as Niall gestures wildly, almost spilling his own drink over himself, _He’d say something._

“So what’s the deal with you not coming to the studio, Liam? Harry was well down.” He sips at his beer, eyes looking up at Liam comically with his mouth pursed like that.

“Oh,” Liam starts, biting his lip as his insides squirm a bit, unused to this scrutiny. He realises his friends have been way too kind to him about this kind of thing, and resolves to thank them once Harry’s out of his life again and he can joke about the last five years like the adult he claims to be. “Just had some stuff on. Besides,” Liam adds on, cutting across Niall’s open mouth, “He doesn’t need me there to distract him.” He laughs, but it sounds strangled even to him. “He doesn’t even know me, really.”

Niall’s eyes search his face again as he nods. Liam gulps down more alcohol, his throat burning.

“You should give him a chance, mate,” Niall says, and Liam frowns, confused, “He’s trying.”

“–at him! Give me your drink, you’ve had enough!” The raised voice sounds above the music, and a few people – including Liam and Niall – turn their heads to watch.

Eleanor snatches the drink from Sophia’s grip and downs it herself, her dark make-up making her look intimidating in the low light of the room. The party’s at some exec’s mansion; Liam’s got no clue. It’s packed to the brim and most partygoers aren’t bothering with the drama. Maybe it’s par for the course at these things, but Liam knows he’s got to shut it down. And fast.

“Hey,” Liam says as he walks over, “Come on, El, leave her alone.”

She laughs bitterly, and bits of her outfit gleam as if in commiseration. “Of course,” she says, throwing her hands up in exasperation, “Superman here to save the fucking day.”

Liam raises an eyebrow, turns to see Sophia glaring at Eleanor.

“Liam’s got nothing to do with this!” Sophia cries, and she looks like she’s trembling with anger, her lips almost pursed white. “What the hell is your problem?”

“Soph,” Liam interrupts, Eleanor’s murderous glare not unusual – he’s used to it by now, so she’s not nearly as scary as she thinks she is, “Not here, yeah? Let’s go home, alright?”

“I don’t want to go home,” Sophia spits, almost as if she’s actually spitting on Eleanor, “ _She’s_ there.”

“Alright,” Liam placates her, placing a hand on her shoulder, gently pulling her toward where he thinks the exit might be. Eleanor’s lips curl up into a snarl. “You can come back to mine, just _not here._ ”

Liam only remembers Niall when they get back to Liam’s flat, the two of them looking at the ground as they’re photographed leaving the party. Liam hates it, but he knew if he ever made a name for himself that this would be something that would happen. Doesn’t make it any less surreal, though, or less annoying. He vaguely wonders how Harry deals with it; papped everywhere he goes, headline after headline about him smeared across the front pages of tabloids.

“She doesn’t get it,” Sophia mutters as he helps her unlace her boots, sitting on his bed. Her mascara is a little smeared, like she wiped away a stray tear or two. Liam rubs her knees consolingly before taking off the boots, taking her jacket from her and placing it on the chair behind him. “She doesn’t understand.” She’s not drunk and slurring her words, but Liam can hear the distress in her tone and offers her up some of his joggers to change into.

“It’ll be alright.” he says, pushing her hair behind her ears, kissing her cheek before he leaves her to it, sighing as he closes his bedroom door.

They’ve got the weekend off, thankfully, and so Liam showers and changes into pyjamas he grabs from his room once he’s certain Sophia’s changed. She’s passed out on his bed, and he moves his blankets to cover her before grabbing some from the linen closet in the hall and settling into his couch, the cushions that usually let him sink back into it feeling frumpy and uncomfortable after the night’s events.

After an hour he resigns himself to a long night, and instead opens up his Twitter for the first time in a while.

 **Liam** @Real_Liam_Payne  
Can’t slep........  
12:57 AM – 24 Mar 2018

It gets hits in seconds, and Liam’s shocked at the quick replies. He checks his follower count, and – 500,000 followers. He stares at the number for a moment, not quite believing it.

 _How did that even happen?_ he thinks, knowing that the last time he tweeted was sometime in February. But he looks on his account and sees he’s retweeted the band’s promo tweets from March. He frowns. Maybe Lucy’s been on his account, keeping things active. He’d forgotten he’d had to give her his password back when he’d signed with her.

 **Liam** @Real_Liam_Payne  
questions? bored!!! #askliam  
1:02 AM – 24 Mar 2018

He doesn’t know what inspires him to do it, but he feels obligated to do something with that huge number glaring up at him. Questions he can pick seems harmless enough. He realises, though, that just because he can pick them doesn’t mean he doesn’t glimpse the ones he wouldn’t attempt if he was within an inch of his life.

 **lime** @limmerlime 24 Mar 2018  
@Real_Liam_Payne shove your drumsticks up my ass??? #askliam

_Christ._

**Phoebe** @rellaw  
what’s your fave song on the debut? :) #askliam  
1:05 AM – 24 Mar 2018

This one he can answer.

 **Liam** @Real_Liam_Payne 24 Mar 2018  
@rellaw definitely here  & now!! els is a genius

He continues on in this vein for about an hour, talking about recording the album, writing, where he lives ( _east London!! Not telling u where tho_ ), all the kinds of things he’d never really expected to be asked about. He’s just a boy from Wolverhampton, bashing some drums in his free time and sometimes getting paid for it. It’s weird.

The last question he chooses to answer he does because it’s nearly two o’clock in the morning and his head is about ready to explode. There’s a pounding behind his eyes that means he needs to close them and sleep, and some part of him rises up from the ashes of his consciousness to hit ‘reply’ and type out something he’ll regret in the morning.

 **sammy.** @haryhairyhaz  
do u like harry?? : ) #askliam  
1:49 AM – 24 Mar 2018

 **Liam** @Real_Liam_Payne 24 Mar 2018  
@haryhairyhaz yes! Top lad curly curls loves capuchino [coffee emoji]

He wakes up to Louis towering over him, unimpressed expression on his face. It’s almost comical, the way his hair is mussed and his eyes have bags underneath them, his stubble erratic. He looks wholly under slept, and the face he’s pulling makes him look like a little child fed up with the rules his parents have given him.

“Lou?” Liam questions, voice raspy with sleep.

“Hmm...” Louis hums, eyes narrowing, before walking away. Liam just closes his eyes, dozes off again and only wakes when his stomach grumbles angrily. He finds his phone underneath his arse, dead, and groans. He’ll plug it in after breakfast.

“Soph?” Liam calls out, and he hears the toilet flush and the tap run before she’s appearing, hair a mess and face freshly washed. Her Ramones shirt looks daggy in the light of day, and she’s rolled Liam’s joggers at the waist so they don’t fall off her hips.

“Liam.” She smiles, tired, and gives him a hug. He returns it loosely, kissing her cheek before walking into the kitchen. The open plan means she can sit on the counter, legs dangling, and watch as he pulls a pan out from the cupboard.

“Had breakfast yet?”

“No,” she answers, “If you’re making, I’ll gladly have some.” He smiles at her, shaking his head in faux exasperation before starting up some scrambled eggs.

It’s as they're chewing through their cold toast, mostly done with their meal, that Liam remembers his phone.

“Hang on a minute,” he says, and darts across the room to grab it, coming back to plug it into the power point in the kitchen. It powers on, slow as anything, and he looks to see he’s got some texts from Eleanor, a few from Zayn, one from each of his sisters, and finally – two from Harry.

 _You alright?_ the first reads, _Haven’t heard from you in a bit. xx_

It’s dated yesterday afternoon, and the last text is dated early that morning. Harry _did_ mention he was an early riser.

_Thank you, I do like my curls. xx_

Liam flushes in mortification, remembering the last thing he tweeted out. He can’t seem to stop, can he? Just when he thinks he’s gotten away with it, when he can walk away from Harry with his dignity intact, he has to go and muck it all up again. How many times is this now? Too many to count, Liam realises with shame.

“What’s wrong?” Sophia asks, and he looks up to see her smiling.

“Ugh,” Liam groans, dropping his face into his hands and speaking through his fingers, “I’ve just embarrassed myself again.”

“So this is like every other day, then?”

Liam lifts his head to glare at her, ignoring her giggles.

“Chin up, Liam.” She pats his wrist with her warm hand, smiling wide, “It can’t be that bad. Remember that time you tripped and fell into my chest? That’s worse than everything else put together.”

“And you just had to remind me, didn’t you?” Liam grumbles, the shame creeping in. He’d been eighteen and an absolute twat. Luckily Sophia had been nice about it or Liam doesn’t know where he’d be.

“That’s my job, love,” She tells him, popping the last bit of toast into her mouth, “But what’s got you moping?”

“I’m not moping,” Liam retorts, a little offended. He deflates at her sceptical look. “It’s nothing. Not important, anyway.”

She simply hums, licking her finger to get the crumbs off her plate.

Liam hears footsteps and turns his head to see Louis walk in, head down as he types into his phone. Liam’s own pings seconds later, and he looks to it to see Louis’ sent him a text – even though they’re in the same room – that reads _This is about you ! lol_ with a link attached. And because Liam’s a gullible idiot, he clicks the link.

“A lot of people write from their own experience,” Harry’s measured voice comes out of his phone, and Liam starts in his chair. He can feel the stares of both Louis and Sophia on him and he squirms in his seat, unable to turn the damned video off because his phone’s so bloody slow. “But I don’t like to necessarily share everything about my process, because that means it’s harder for fans to interpret it in their own way.”

“The first track on _Cruel or Kind_ , Harry,” the male interviewer starts, and Liam’s captivated by the way Harry’s fingers come up to play with his own bottom lip, eyes focused on the interviewer in front of him like they’re the only person in the room when Liam knows from personal experience there’s at least ten others there, “ _[Do I Wanna Know?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpOSxM0rNPM) _ is... you’ve said a lot with that song. People can’t help but theorise.”

Harry takes his fingers away, a small frown forming.

“Then let them theorise. If I tell everyone who it’s about then that takes away the creativity of it, don’t you think? Let them have imagination!” Harry spreads his hands out, cheeky smile on his face.

“So it _is_ about someone?” The guy prods. Harry’s grin gets wider as his hands drop, and he shakes his head in exasperation.

Liam clicks out, can’t watch anymore. His phone manages it this time, and the silence of the room leaves his ears ringing.

“What’d you send that for?” Liam asks, low and dangerous. There’s a rage in his head, clouding his vision. What’s Louis playing at, sending him this, telling him it’s about–

“You’re being a fucking cockhead. All this time you had me thinking Styles had no clue who you are.” Louis rolls his eyes, drops his phone nonchalantly onto the counter and puts his hands on his hips, “When all you had to do was listen to that whiny record and realise _the whole thing’s about you._ ”

Liam stands, his chair scraping against the wood of the floor obnoxiously. Sophia’s eyes snap to him as she puts her plate down, but Liam’s glaring at Louis, his chest heaving, the culmination of everything making him want to do _something_.

“You’ve got no business saying that,” Liam tells him, jaw clenching spasmodically, and it feels like there’s something ugly crawling up this throat, clambering to get out, “Not when you can’t even _talk_ to Zayn. Not when you’ve had a year long _tantrum_ because... it’s almost like you’re in love with him!”

It’s, without a doubt, the cruellest thing Liam’s ever said.

Louis’ face transforms, the smug smirk falling off and the colour draining from his cheeks. His eyes are wide, his lips parted. He looks shocked. It takes Liam only a second to realise what he’s said, and another second for the regret to come crashing over him like a particularly ferocious wave, unrelenting and suffocating.

“Louis,” Liam gasps, the rage a mere ghost, shame and remorse sinking into his bone marrow, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“At least I didn’t leave someone I was in love with because I’ve got self-esteem issues,” Louis spits out, venomous, looking at Liam like he’s dirt, “How’s Dani these days, anyway? Isn’t she married?” He storms from the room and Liam swears colourfully, running a hand through his hair. The kitchen is silent again for a few moments, Liam strung out and exhausted and sad. He’s such a fucking wanker, the worst kind of friend to throw that back in Louis’ face. He deserved that comment about Dani, even if it ripped him open a little. Liam’s mucked it all up _again_. Again _and again and again_.

_No wonder Harry left._

“Seems important to me, Liam.” Sophia concludes softly, breaking the silence, and Liam turns to look at her. Her soft brown eyes bore into his, and Liam’s heart shrivels up a bit, battered and bruised.

“Yeah.” Liam says, and wishes it wasn’t. _Cruel or kind... fuck._

He retreats to his room once Sophia leaves ten or so minutes later, a sad smile on her face. He’d tried knocking on Louis’ closed door with no luck, Brand New blaring from his speakers once more. Funny how Louis plays them when he’s feeling particularly spiteful. Zayn had always hated them when they’d all lived together.

He takes a nap, fucks around on his phone for a bit and texts his sisters back, extending the text conversation for as long as possible, the thoughts nagging at the back of his head getting more and more pronounced before he succumbs, opening up his laptop and typing in ‘harry styles 2018’ into Youtube.

He clicks on the first video, not bothering to read the title, and sees that it’s dated a few days ago.

Harry looks good, like always. He’s wearing one of those stupid farmer hats, the type that Liam would deliberately shove off his head and laugh at, pushing his hands into those curls instead.

_Stop thinking about it._

He skips forward, bored with the introduction already when it’s things he already knows – the fact he’s at that place now, that he knows things about Harry Styles... Liam wants to punch himself in the face, quite honestly.

“I know it’s probably not something you’ve been asked a lot,” the interviewer ploughs on once Liam tunes back in, Harry merely smiling and waiting patiently for her to ask her question, “But the song _Mr. Writer_. I can’t help but think of the fire you were put under by the press last year.”

Liam realises this woman must’ve heard the album before most, because it’s out in just over a week – a few days before Hush’s, actually – and normally artists are pretty tight-lipped about this sort of thing.

Harry’s smile remains despite the mention of press, though he starts to fiddle with his rings, a nervous tick that Liam is beginning to notice more and more often.

“I think,” he starts, considering, looking very thoughtful, “that would be an easy way to explain the song. There’s probably... an element,” he huffs out a laugh, “Sorry, there’s _definitely_ an element of that.”

The interviewer laughs, and Harry shifts on the couch they’ve got him on, moving to play with his cross necklace now.

“But the song’s also about narratives,” Harry explains, and he blinks leisurely, his gaze slowly landing on the interviewer as if he’s suddenly remembered she’s there, “and how people perceive things to suit their own needs.”

“So kind of like memory?” She prompts, and the camera zooms in slightly on Harry.

Harry tilts his head, frowning. “A bit. I guess there’ve been times in my life where I thought things meant more than they did, and sometimes I’ve thought things meant less than they did.” His frown clears, and he inhales deeply, sitting up, and then suddenly the mood shifts, slightly lighter, “The song’s a reflection on the ways we fool ourselves, and how we hurt people in the process.”

“Wow,” the interviewer says, and she leans back a bit as if to give Harry space, “That’s... pretty dire.”

Harry’s face breaks into a grin, and he brings his microphone back up to his lips to warn her, tell her the whole album’s pretty dire.

“Any reason for that?” She prods through a laugh, thoroughly charmed.

Harry’s grin dies, turns into a polite smile. “All the usual reasons, I suppose,” He shrugs, smile still in place, “Love, sadness, regret; all that.”

Liam pauses the video, mildly notices there’s a good few minutes left but he needs a breather, needs to take in everything. Louis’ words swirl around in his brain, taunting and teasing him.

The rational part of him knows that Harry’s probably not even talking about anything to do with Liam, that he still doesn’t remember that night, and that he’s most likely talking about the failed relationships he’s had over the years – Taylor Swift, Kendall Jenner... all women whom he’s had ‘flings’ with, ‘flings’ that fell apart after only months. Liam’s not stupid, he’s really not. He’s not going to delude himself into thinking that Harry remembers letting Liam slide his dick across his rim, almost catching, moaning all the while and coming right after Liam did.

Rationally, Liam knows Harry doesn’t remember that. No matter what Louis says.

The irrational part of Liam, though, realises that if Harry _does_ remember, and if the night merely meant a good time and that’s it; well, he realises that Harry seems to regret it, regret that maybe he made Liam feel used and discarded.

It’s a small part of him, but it allows all the other parts to settle into a strained forgiveness, and for Liam to finally reply to Harry’s text.

 _Sorry. feel a bit awkward,_ he taps out, ignoring the latest text, _not sure how 2 talk 2 u wen theres no vodka n lims involvd_

The three dots pop up insanely quickly for – _one o’clock in the morning, Jesus_ – a Sunday, and Harry’s reply comes through only a minute later.

 _The same as always!_ Harry’s response reads as Liam clicks play once more, the interviewer seguing into what to expect from the tour. _You text just fine, Liam._

“-hat song are you most looking forward to playing live, then, on that note?” she asks, and she’s leaning forward again even though Harry has his own microphone.

_Just text a bit more, maybe? [sunglasses emoji]_

Harry brings up the microphone quickly, playful.

“ _Echo Home_ ’s a good one. Probably my favourite, if I’m being honest.” Harry chuckles, shaking his head and scrunching his nose up in embarrassment, “I probably shouldn’t have said that. I’m not supposed to have favourites.”

“What?” The interviewer laughs, eyebrows raising in confusion.

“Yeah,” Harry says, rolling his eyes with a smile, “Especially if it’s not a single. The cat’s out of the bag!” He spreads his arms, and the silky material of his shirt makes his chest glisten in the studio lights. “What’s your favourite?” Harry asks, intrigued now.

“Mine?” She giggles, and Liam can already tell she’s not listened to the album much at all, maybe just the once for the interview.

“Yeah.” Harry drawls, and Liam guesses he’s surmised the same thing.

“Well,” She’s flustered, playing with her necklace, “I really like _[Sweet Nothing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFkMut3T7rY)_.”

“Really?” Harry leans forward now, suddenly interested, “That’s your favourite?”

“Probably,” she smiles, finding her footing again with Harry’s enthusiasm, “Why? What’s it about?”

Harry laughs, loud and boisterous.

“That was probably the hardest song to write,” he confesses, and the dimples he’s showing contrast the words coming out of his mouth. Liam’s breath hitches, both at the dimples and the words, “Had a pretty awful time of it.”

“In what way?” Her short brown hair bounces, curly and wild, as she readjusts her microphone.

“I’d honestly rather not talk about it,” A slight pause, “Let’s just say I really, really wanted this guy to be my boyfriend, and he wasn’t having it.”

“Boyfriend?” The interviewer’s not laughing, her mouth parted in shock.

Harry raises his eyebrows, grin still in place. “You really didn’t do your research for this, did you?” He laughs, shaking his head as she starts to explain herself, “Don’t worry, I don’t mind. Yeah,” he tacks on the end, obviously realising he never properly answered her question, “I was well into him.”

Liam doesn’t need to watch much more. He knows Harry’s sexuality’s never been a secret, and he knows that just because it’s not a secret that doesn’t mean there’s a spotlight on it. Harry’s bisexual, just like Liam, so the press are always going to be focusing more on the women he dates than any guy he might be seen out with. It’s the sort of thing that’s always bothered Liam more than he’s been willing to admit – mostly for fear of bringing on some kind of media maelstrom in which every bisexual celebrity’s love life is crucified by _The Sun_. He’d rather not be the catalyst of that.

Because Liam loves pain and suffering, though, he scrolls down to read the comments.

There are the usual derogatory statements, the insults and name-calling Liam’s spent years scrolling by, until he hits comments with a lot of likes (and dislikes, Liam’s not blind) that aren’t homophobic.

 _This interviewer is a joke,_ hazza99 writes, _h’s been out for ages! Know ur guests_

_Harry you’re such an inspiration to me. COME TO BRAZIL!!!!!_

Liam’s favourite, once more because he loves pain and suffering, has to be: _Echo Home’s an interesting choice by H. Sounds like he’s waiting for someone. The whole album’s pretty piny. Who’s H met since 2015 that’s got him feeling this way??_

The reply of ‘Kendell Jenner’ has so many dislikes it makes Liam raise his eyebrows in disbelief.

He exits out of the browser quickly after that, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

Everything’s just such a mess. Liam’s meant to be focusing on the upcoming album right now, not on whether or not Harry is dating Kendall Jenner, not on making his friends miserable, not on fucking up his own mental health by indulging the guy who broke his heart years ago.

There’s no way out, though, it seems – other than through. _Closure._

 _Alright,_ Liam replies with a strained smile after he’s heard Harry’s first and only single from _Vignette_ , a song called _Closer_. His fingers are shaking as he struggles to type. _nice song btw, love the cresendo!_

 

***

 

Liam hardly expects to run into Harry at a Tesco’s a few days later, especially one around East London. As far as he knows, Harry lives in the west. But run into him, he does.

He’s brave enough to admit that he hides, even though they’ve been texting since that night. Later, when he tells Sophia about it, he makes it out like he just happened to be standing next to a pillar whilst perusing the vegetables for lunch fillings. Just so happened to slip behind it when Harry came into view. Not hiding, he tells Sophia, just a coincidence.

He’s hiding.

“Liam?”

Liam grimaces, clearing his face of it before he turns with, what he hopes is, a pleasant smile on his face.

“Harry,” Liam responds, scratching the back of his neck nervously, “How– how are you?”

Harry’s grinning now, and Liam doesn’t miss the way his eyes travel over Liam’s shoulders, his navy jacket form-fitting.

“I’d hug you, but...” He gestures to the near-empty basket in Liam’s hands.

Liam laughs, helpless, Harry’s presence making him fidgety and uncomfortable. Now that there’s a tentative forgiveness in the air it’s like Harry’s very being is even more potent, more likely to ensnare Liam even more than it already has. Harry’s like some sort of trap, designed purely and simply to seize Liam in its jaws and never let go – not for a year, not even for five.

“I’m good, though, Liam,” Harry answers, and his dimples appear. He looks a little tired, maybe, but Liam knows he’s probably been working hard on the finishing touches of the album, being interviewed daily just like Hush have been – probably more so. “You went incommunicado there for a bit,” Harry probes, eyes darting between Liam’s, “You can always ring me if things are difficult.”

Liam will never ring Harry, but he appreciates the gesture.

“Definitely. Thanks.” Liam gets out, the aisles closing in on him now. He isn’t at all done shopping for that night’s dinner, but he needs to leave. It’s a slow process, this closure. Like he’s weaning himself off of Harry bit by bit.

“I’ve got a secret show next week,” Harry starts just as Liam’s about to open his mouth to blurt out an excuse, like the fact his non-existent dog is waiting to be fed at home or something. “You should come.”

“Secret?” asks Liam, looking at Harry’s hopeful smile and completely missing the white-handed grip he’s got on his own basket, “Sounds ominous.”

Harry barks out a laugh, looking a little sheepish when a woman nearby raises her eyebrow at him. She looks away quickly, though, and Liam imagines _she_ might be embarrassed about sassing a celebrity, as she’s sure to have recognised Harry.

“Just one of those gigs you need an invite to,” Harry explains, nose scrunching up a bit, fighting back a grin. “And you’re invited.”

“Well– alright, then.” Liam answers haltingly, nerves swimming through his intestines.

“Brilliant!” Harry exclaims, and Liam tries not to smile himself, “Look for my owl.” He winks, and Liam huffs out a laugh. Harry Potter. Who knew.

“Alright, Slughorn,” Liam teases, biting his lip, “Err, I better get home, though.”

Harry looks down into Liam’s basket, sees a lone lemon sitting there. His face falls a little, his smile dampened.

“Right,” Harry says, looking up at him with a small smile as Liam backs away, “I’ll text you, then.”

“I thought you were owling me?” Liam calls out, turning around with a puzzled smile toward the registers before he can see the answering look on Harry’s face, almost running in his haste to escape.

That felt an awful lot like flirting – he thinks as he goes through self check-out with his one bloody lemon, resigned to a night of takeaway pizza – and that’s murky waters, flirting is. Liam can’t flirt with Harry. He’s meant to be getting _through_ this, not _into_ Harry’s bloody pants.

 _Snap out of it, Payne,_ he thinks as he unlocks his flat door, _and get it together._

Louis’ sitting on the couch when he walks in, and he turns his head to stare at Liam blankly.

“Lou,” Liam greets him, regret flooding all of his senses. He still feels like an absolutely _shitting_ twat for what he said. “I’m so sorry. You’ve got no idea. I was such a twat. I’ve been so caught up in, in my own mess. I didn’t even think–”

“Shut up.” Louis snaps, and Liam closes his mouth with an audible sound. Louis sighs, his face softening a tad. “You were a fucking wanker, yeah? Of the highest order. I’ve not fucking forgiven you. But we live together, and you’re one of my best mates, and I fucking hate it but you were a bit right. _Still–_ ” He glares at Liam again, “–a massive knob. But you were a right knob. A correct wanker. An accurate prick–”

“Alright!” Liam exclaims. They lock eyes and share slow, hesitant smiles. “I get it. I’m not forgiven.”

“Good. You understand.” Louis’ face clears, and he glares again, “Now get your arse over here and give me a foot rub. I had to stand in line at the fancy tea place for twenty fucking minutes today.”

Liam bites his tongue and goes. He owes Louis about a million foot rubs. A foot rub every day for the rest of Liam’s life, to be quite honest.

Louis’ almost asleep by the time Liam brings it up, lulled into unconsciousness by the sound of families watching TV shows and giving their much needed commentary.

“Bumped into Harry today,” He mentions as casually as he can, though the sharp knead he gives the ball of Louis’ left foot probably belies his stress. One of Louis’ eyes pops open to consider him, humming thoughtfully. “Invited me to some album launch thing,” Another hum, “Thought you might come with, maybe.”

He opens both eyes then, sitting up a little to narrow his eyes at Liam before smoothing his face over, biting the inside of his cheek in thought.

“I’ll come,” he agrees, “and so will Zayn – and you won’t say a fucking word, alright?” He snarks before lying back down, closing his eyes once more, “Now get back to it.”

Liam does as he’s told, grateful for someone as loving and forgiving and thoughtful as Louis. He needs to be a better friend to him, Liam realises. Louis’ put up with him for going on four years. It’s only fair Liam repays him.

“And don’t you dare put on _Bake Off,_ ” snaps Louis, though he sounds like he’s slurring a little, “I’ll fucking know.”

 

***

 

 **Harry Styles.** @Harry_Styles  
When life gives you lemons...  
1:30 PM – 29 Mar 2018

He likes the week-old tweet in a show of good faith, like he’s fulfilling his promise of staying in contact better by doing it.

“Stop fucking fidgeting,” Louis snipes, slapping Liam gently across the cheek, “You’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry,” Liam mumbles an apology, the guy behind him in the queue making him cringe with his high and reedy voice, his timbre jarring on Liam’s musical ears, “Just... don’t know how to stop.”

“What’re you going to do, mate?” Zayn says from next to Louis. He goes to take Louis’ hand only to be slapped away.

“Don’t touch me.” Louis snarls, and Zayn bites a back smile.

“You’re here,” Zayn continues, as if he wasn’t just rejected by... well, whatever Louis is to Zayn; Liam’s got no fucking idea and he doesn’t even want to begin to contemplate, “Someone’s no doubt posted that you’re here on Twitter. You can’t leave now.”

“Thanks, Zayn,” Liam says dryly, rubbing his palms down his face in frustration, “That’s a really big help.”

Zayn just shrugs, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and going to light it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Louis hisses, batting the cigarette out of Zayn’s hands and onto the ground, “Now is not the time.”

Zayn glares at him but doesn’t move to save the cigarette, or light another. He huffs instead, impatient.

“How fuckin’ long is this going to take? I thought this was exclusive, or whatever.” He grumbles, standing on his tiptoes to look around the people in front of them. Louis shifts a little closer to him so their shoulders are touching, leather jacket against denim.

Liam’s insides are rolling; he feels about fit to vomit up all over Louis’s vans. But he doesn’t. Because he still owes Louis for the rest of his life and he doesn’t feel like getting murdered today for breaking their carefully crafted forgiveness.

“Line’s moving.” Louis announces, and suddenly they’re walking, shuffling along.

“Names?” grunts the guard at the door a minute or so later, big and burly. Liam _really_ doesn’t want to vomit on him, either.

“Liam Payne,” Louis says, peering down at the list with interest, “Louis Tomlinson. Zayn Malik.” The guard looks up at the last name, eyes moving over them until he gets to Zayn, spiky black hair and leather jacket making him look every bit the part of avid concert goer instead of internationally famous fashion model.

“My girlfriend loves you.” He says, and he sounds reluctantly impressed, like he expected Zayn to be a massive dickhead. Not like they’ve only spoken for thirty seconds or anything.

Liam’s feeling particularly sassy, he realises. Probably a result of the vomit he keeps having to swallowing down.

“Yeah? Sick.” Zayn replies, giving a quirk of an eyebrow.

“Can we go in now, or is your stiffy blocking the way?” Louis snaps, and Liam has enough sense to pinch his side hard for that.

The guard glares at them but stamps the inside of their wrists and lets them through, Zayn’s white smile probably easing the way a bit.

“Why’d you have to almost get us kicked out?” Zayn asks him as they make their way into the dimly lit club, his eyes dark and heated, “Liam’s bricking it as it is.”

He is, he really is.

“Oh, he’s fine,” Louis waves a hand, unworried, like Liam’s not about to lose his dinner all over the girl in front of them, her naked back likely to take the brunt of it, “Trust me.”

There’s more waiting – _why is there so much waiting?_ – and Liam manages to get a good rhythm going: a deep breath in and a deep breath out.

“Li,” Zayn says into his ear, calm and low, “You’re fine, yeah? It’s just a gig.”

Liam nods, feeling the sweat drip down his back in an embarrassing display of nerves.

“Yeah,” he gasps out, wiping the perspiration from his brow and looking up at his friend, “I know. Sorry. Just... kind of... bringing back some memories.”

Zayn nods. He knows. Liam told him a few days ago.

 _God,_ Liam thinks, looking up at the stage. They’re in the V.I.P. area, he realises. Even though the show’s by invite only, the stamps must allocate standing areas. Liam thinks he glimpses a woman who looks an awful lot like Harry a few people down from them, young and dimply, before he averts his gaze back to the empty stage. The lights are simple – Harry’s not even on yet, of course, as the small club needs to fill up – and a mic stand sits dead centre. There’s a stool slightly off to the side, a guitar hook right next to it. A roadie walks by, places an acoustic there, making sure it’s wired up correctly before continuing to the backstage area. Liam can’t see anything offstage. There are three mic stands up the back – back up singers, most likely – and a drum kit off to the side. A piano sits on the opposite end of the stage, white and old. Where they are they’re just to the right of Harry’s microphone, surely to be in his eye line. The stage sits high – they’re right up the front – and Liam has to crane his neck just a tad to see everything.

All up, it’s much smaller than Harry usually plays. It’s smaller than _Liam_ even plays these days. Intimate. Exclusive, Zayn said.

 _In,_ Liam breathes, _Out. In. Out._

It’s about a half hour later – after more roadies walk across the stage, after a few muttered _One, two, three, testing_ s, after the room fills up and Liam no longer needs his bomber jacket, knotting it around his waist instead like it’s the 90’s – that the lights dim completely and the stage is lit up, the crowd screaming almost deafeningly.

Harry walks on stage, his hair curling around his ears, the black and white paisley shirt unbuttoned almost down to his navel drawing screams from the crowd. Liam hears the woman to their right heckle good-naturedly. Harry shoots her a fond smile, nodding gratefully at the audience.

“Alright, alright,” He says once he reaches the mic, and his voice is smooth and sure, entirely different from the one he used in Tesco’s a week ago. His band sets up behind him, and Liam sees Niall walk on stage with a dark red electric guitar around his neck, grinning, “Calm down. This print’s not half as wild as what I originally had planned.”

The crowd screams again and Harry grins, laughing down at his brown chelsea boots, his ripped black jeans completing the ensemble.

“Mate,” Louis yells into Liam’s ear above the screams around them, “what the fuck?”

Yeah. Liam feels similarly.

“This is _[Jackie and Wilson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YKhYsp3uyGk)_.” He announces, and the crowds goes off again, less high-pitched screaming and more of an even roar as the drums kick in. _Isn’t this club supposed to be small?_

Harry nods along, stopping with the abrupt cease in beat, and pulling a face when it jerks, like it’s restarting.

“So tired trying to see from behind the red in my eyes,” He sings, voice strong and sturdy and Liam had forgotten – he can’t believe he’d forgotten – what it was like to hear it in person, the timbre a rough, unique quality not many achieve. “No better version of me I could pretend to be tonight,” He elongates the last word, grinning at the crowd as he pushes his mic stand forward, bending over with the note and springing back up upon its completion. His foot is tapping the stage absently with the beat, and Liam can’t help the way he rocks back and forth himself. Zayn’s got an arm around Louis’ shoulder to Liam’s right and he’s doing the same, rocking the both of them a little.

“Laughing away through my feeble disguise,” He stretches his voice for that, giving the woman in the V.I.P. a wink as he flips his hair over his shoulder.

“'Cause with my mid-youth crisis,” His eyes slide across them, settle on Liam only for him to smile warmly through his next line, “all said and done;” His eyes flit away, searching the crowd, “I need to be youthfully felt 'cause, God, I never felt young!”

The chorus comes in and Liam drags his eyes away to see Niall looking down at his guitar, expression concentrated as he strums the strings. It’s a slow beat, so the drummer looks lax and lazy, mouth open and eyes staring off into the distance, lost to the rhythm.

“We'll name our children Jackie and Wilson, raise 'em on rhythm and blues.” Harry sings, moving over so the mic stand tilts to the left, the crowd in that direction building in cheers. There’s a pause, the music stopped. Harry grins, the audience whistling as he breathes heavily. He lifts a hand and as soon as he drops it, the beat kicks back in immediately.

The rest of the song is lost to Harry’s exuberance, the way his chest heaves with every inhale, the cross necklace gliding across his bare chest. His hair moves with him, curls wild, and the microphone is more like an extension of him than a piece of technical equipment. Liam’s left staring like an absolute dunce, in wonder and awe and all the things that make you stop to take a moment, to process what’s in front of you.

“I start digging up the yard for what's left of me and our little vignette,” He grins at that, the album title dropping in seamlessly, before he transitions into the last chorus, voice loud and clear and so very Harry. By the end he’s panting a little, his movement around the small stage and the way he’s belted out his new lyrics leaving him breathless. Liam’s there with him, biting his lip in commiseration.

“Alrigh’,” Zayn admits to Liam, accent thick as he leans in past Louis, “I’ll admit, he’s not too bad.” Coming from a man who listens to almost solely R’n’B, that’s definitely a compliment.

Harry huffs into the mic, pushing his hair away from his face with a grin.

“Sorry about that,” he apologises, like any part of that was less than incredible, “Been a while since I did a set like this. Voice is a bit rusty.” He does some vocal exercises, exaggerated and awful for effect.

Liam swallows back his feelings. This is... almost too much.

“Can you believe Niall chose this one?” He picks at his shirt, and the screams are higher in pitch, “I had a wonderful leopard print one-piece hidden away but he burnt it before the show.” Harry shakes his head, playing at being upset, “Absolutely awful. These people want leopard print, Niall!”

The crowd screams, and Liam turns to see faces laughing and smiling, a few rolled eyes.

“No, they don’t.” Niall chimes in, having walked up to a microphone quickly and backing away just as.

“Alrigh’,” Harry drawls, “Maybe not. Enough of this, though. This next one’s called _[Closer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkGhDHP093M)_.”

Everyone knows this one because it’s the only single, and Liam himself is singing by the end, ignoring Louis’ narrowed eyes and his own heart thumping hard and fast in his chest, beating a tattoo against his ribs and _hurting, hurting, hurting._

 _[Black Balloon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ruc1jTK2H_s) _ follows, a stripped down piece with piano at the end, coupled with harmonies. Niall’s voice comes into its own throughout, and he takes over the last chorus, Harry taking long swallows of water. He’s starting to sweat, the hair at his temples damp as the stage lights change from white and yellows to bottle greens, casting everyone’s faces in shadows.

[It starts with a drum beat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwOMnIuAGOY), one Liam can imagine himself replicating in his mind easily, slow and steady, like a muggy summer’s day.

“You line them up, look at your shoes. You hang names on your wall, then you shoot them all.” Harry sings, voice raspy and slow, eyes closed. His jaw juts out stubbornly with his intonation, the greens making his face otherworldly in its beauty.

“Mr. Writer,” He leans back, breathing deeply, “Why don't you tell it like it is? Why don't you tell it like it really is?” Harry raises his eyebrows, turns his head with both hands on the mic, looks toward the far corner with a smirk on his face, “Before you go on home.”

There’s someone on the piano, a small solo, before Harry brings in the bridge again, shouting out the last line, the audience cheering in response.

“Mr Writer,” His voice is straining – not that he can’t hit the notes, but that he’s pushing it out, almost screaming it, “Why don't you tell it like it really is?” Deep inhale, “Why don't you tell it like it _always_ is?”

The back-up singers croon the last notes, the drum stopping to let the guitar finish, tempo slowing.

“That one was for you, Piers,” Harry announces once he’s caught his breath, massive grin on his face, “Write about that, maybe.”

The crowd shouts and jeers at the back corner, and Liam knows enough to realise that Harry’s just called out a journalist – probably a shitty one, by the sounds of it – who’s in attendance.

Louis looks smug.

[The next song is a piano number](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApCRyLTjooo), mournful and lost, and Liam’s heart aches a little at the thought. The past five years are still somewhat a mystery to Liam. What Harry’s been through, what he’s done. The surface of it can be found in a Google search, or a Youtube spiral – but the real, authentic, gritty details of life aren’t available for Liam to read about. He feels like they’re not for him, somehow. He’s not a part of that Harry, not a part of the five years where he rose to fame and fortune – just like Harry’s not a part of the five years Liam spent recovering his career from a failed set of gigs, from a band that had some substance problems, and a relationship that never happened. Liam’s been through five years of crap, just like Harry might have been through five years of shitty moments – losing people, loving people, being a person outside of Liam’s memory.

It’s hard to take, that realisation; it buries itself into his muscle fibres and refuses to let go. It’s tenacious and unforgiving, knowing that the love Liam feels inside him is a love five years old – outdated, out of style, outmatched. Liam’s eyes sting at the notion, his emotions bubbling up inside him like a volcano threatening to erupt. He almost laughs – would be, if Louis and Zayn weren’t right next to him; would be, if he wasn’t in front of the man responsible for it, if he wasn’t stood amongst a crowd of hundreds, listening to Harry Styles bare his soul.

There’s something poetic about it, Liam’s sure; that Harry’s ripping open wounds on stage and Liam’s using needle and thread to hide them away in the throng of people listening; stitches badly done and likely to pull at any moment.

It might be the reason why [the next song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JtgfSwn74E0) hits him so hard.

The slowness of it isn’t unfamiliar to Liam, of course – even if Harry’s first album was mostly sexy, upbeat rock, with his second seeming to be more measured so far – less pure desire and more of a slow burning beneath the skin.

No. It’s not the slowness that has Liam’s breath hitching. It’s the way Harry’s hands tremble just the slightest, his voice husky and on the verge of too raw. The words resound in Liam’s head, an ironic echo of “You can keep your own dear life, you can lose it all if you wanna. But I can't keep you out of mine, oh no.” that hits a little too close to home, discomfort settling into his core.

The lights are dim, simple whites and blues casting Harry in soft colour, as if he’s a part of the set himself, a work of art amongst the musicians. Niall’s on guitar; gentle backing vocals a light contrast to Harry’s deeper intonations. Harry’s eyes are closed, his brow furrowed, and Liam flashes back to five years ago and a much smaller venue, a beer in his hand and a lump in his throat as he looked at a boy not even twenty sing about staying eighteen forever.

The contrast leaves Liam dizzy. Harry; in front of the microphone stand on stage and hands gripping it fiercely, long hair shifting slightly as he rocks back and forth with the beat, and a vulnerable crease in his forehead – compared to that boy at Borderline, voice wavering with nerves but a bravery within him that struck Liam dumb. Harry’s eyes open slowly then, a flutter, to rest on Liam in the V.I.P. section.

“And if I take a turn for the worst,” he sings, his voice edging on a crack though he recovers with the ease of a professional, as he is one, “And I call you on the phone, will you echo home when I call?” Harry’s eyes are boring into Liam now, his hands white against the microphone, “Won't you echo back and make it alright?”

Liam’s transfixed, the dizziness having left him abruptly. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Harry wrote this song about them. But... but he hasn’t. Liam knows this. The song’s about losing someone and trying to find them again. Harry doesn’t even remember Liam; doesn’t know they were _something_ to each other years ago.

So the tightness in Liam’s chest, and the way tendrils of hope weasel their way into his brain and latch on? It’s false, the feelings not to be trusted. Liam’s projecting, he’s hearing and seeing what’s not there. Harry just happened to look over, happened to catch his eye. He’s not going to smile at him, the familiar dimples showing, when the song is so melancholy. That’s why he seems so serious and intent.

It takes a moment for Liam to realise that even the crowd are muted, the muttered conversations present throughout the other songs now absent; like they respect this is a song Harry wants everyone to hear, clear as day, with no misinterpretations. Well, Liam’s hearing it. It might be hurting him more than he will ever admit to anyone, let alone Harry, but he’s damn well hearing it.

“Won't you echo home and make me fine?” Harry trails off, and the instruments take over for a bar, Harry’s eyes still piercing into Liam despite the fact he’s got a break from singing. His mouth lingers near the mic and Liam can’t look away. The song continues on, and Liam’s held still by Harry’s steady gaze.

“I'm flowing with the waters, I'm spinning into orbit,” Harry inhales deeply, a rattled breath echoing throughout the venue, giving him away, “So won't you come on home and make it alright?” The guitar twangs, and Liam jumps a tad, jolted out of the haze of Harry’s stare, taking in a lungful of air to compensate for the way he’d been so still, breath laboured, for the majority of the song.

“So won't you come on home and make it fine?” Harry’s still looking at him, and as the crowd roar with the final note of the electric guitar, he keeps looking. He’s staring right at him, green eyes sharp and penetrating. Liam’s frozen on the spot, and yet he’s never felt warmer. Sweat trickles down his back, his hair feels grimy and greasy, and he realises that Harry’s asking him. He’s not just singing; he’s asking Liam that question.

It’s too much, he’s reached his limit. Liam inhales shakily, his lungs burning with the effort to maintain a steady rhythm, and turns. He pretends not to hear Zayn’s worried words, pushes away Louis’s curious pokes, and leaves.

Liam leaves. And it’s easy, just like it was last time. Because Harry can’t take this as well. Liam thought he’d forgiven him, but Harry _took_ that night from Liam, he snatched away that future from right underneath Liam’s feet. He can’t take this song; he can’t take music from Liam’s heart and never give it back. He can’t taint this, too. It’s not _fair._

So Liam leaves. And if his hands tremble over a rare cigarette, his lighter almost falling to the ground in his haste; if his eyes burn on the tube ride home, a young child ogling his misery... then no one needs to know. The little girl forgets soon enough, drifting off to sleep in her father’s arms.

Liam’s finally alone, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love pain. Scream at me in the comments :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm... get ready for the pain train.

**2013**

 

“Niall?” Liam asks, leaning against the doorjamb as Harry fiddles with his keys. His eyes flick over to Liam with an amused smile, though he seems to be trying to fight it, corners of his lips turned down in a poor attempt to do so.

“He’s Irish,” Harry says, like that explains everything. Liam, with an eye roll, realises it almost does. Harry extrapolates, anyway, “He’ll be out ‘til five, at the least. He’s got tomorrow off.”

The apartment is cleaner than Liam had imagined it would be, especially for two musicians. There’s a pile of empty pizza boxes next to garbage bags stacked to go out, but the couch area isn’t dirty, even if it is a little rumpled. There’s a small, cramped bookcase next to the TV which catches Liam’s eye immediately. The kitchen seems to be in the room to the left of them, though there’s no door separating it. The hallway extends past the living room, narrowing, and Liam guesses that’s where the bedrooms and bathroom are. It’s small, but Liam finds it has a strange charm to it.

Though that might be the owners, one of which grazes a light hand across Liam’s stomach before dumping his keys on the hall table and beckoning Liam to follow him further inside.

“You don’t want anything, do you?” Harry asks, flopping down onto the couch and sprawling his legs out wide, absently turning on the telly. Liam eyes the tempting space between them before sitting down himself, a little more gracefully, turned on his side to face Harry. He leans against a fist and looks at him.

His purple plaid shirt is unbuttoned a little more than before, revealing tanned skin, the hint of a tattoo. Harry told him about his summer trip to Greece with his sister, bathing in the hotel pool and discovering a nude beach along the coast. Liam’s sidetracked by that thought; of Harry with wet hair, drops of water making his shoulders glisten, nipples brown and inviting. The hair leading down to–

“No,” Liam says quietly, stopping himself before he gets too far, “I’m fine. Had enough drinks at the bar.”

“But not enough to forget me, right?” Harry teases, head swinging to face Liam. The implication alone leaves Liam a little cold, though, so he shakes his head quickly with a huff and a smile.

There’s that silence again – with anyone else, Liam feels like he’d be thinking about how to transition from couch to bed with the least amount of embarrassment. With Harry it’s like... he’s a sure thing, in the way that Liam can depend on Andy to be at the bar on Fridays, the way he knows his mum will call every Tuesday at eight o’clock, the way he can count on his body to smash out a fifteen kilometre run every weekend. And if Harry’s a sure thing, like all those other sure things in Liam’s life, then there’s no rush to get there. There’s no thought process where Liam anticipates a rejection, or an embarrassment that won’t be received by a kind laugh.

“How do you do it?” Liam asks suddenly, voice soft in the dark of the room. The blue hue of the TV illuminates Harry’s face in a masterpiece of light and shadow, highlighting his sharp jaw and softening his lips further so all Liam can think about is kissing him.

“Perform?” Harry confirms, like he can follow Liam’s thought process, like he knows him well enough to do so. He continues at Liam’s small nod, eyes searching Liam’s face, “I guess the reality of it is less scary than the idea, even if it takes a while for my hands to stop shaking.”

The honesty doesn’t shock him – and that fact _should_ shock him. There’s a comfortable moment in which Liam lets Harry’s answer sink in – such a different kind of experience to his own, where the anticipation leading up to a show makes his chest go tight; not with nerves but with adrenaline, the pulse of the beat he creates thudding through his bones like a mallet hits stone, the roaring of a crowd not for him igniting a satisfaction within that keeps him calm for days after until the desire to feel that pulse returns once more.

Liam can hear the way Harry’s breathing, slow and steady, and it’s in such stark contrast to the fluttering of Liam’s own heart that he brings up a hand to touch at Harry’s lips, swollen from devouring cocktail after cocktail. Harry’s breath catches, but soon evens out once more. Liam’s staring at the way it blows over his own thumb, which pulls at Harry’s bottom lip in fascination. Such a strange thing, the air they breathe – so vital, and yet a wispy, invisible entity that can stop and start at any moment.

Liam must be drunker than he thought, even if he’s only had four beers – though the quick thought that maybe it’s not _alcohol_ he’s drunk off of flits across his mind before it’s lost in a barrage of Harry; Harry’s lips, firm against his; Harry’s breath, hot and heavy and heady; Harry’s hands, gripping Liam’s jaw with a reverence reserved for familiar lovers; Harry’s eyelids, fluttering open to reveal a green so startling Liam finds he, himself, is breathless. Harry is a suffocating presence, and yet all Liam is aware of is the way his breath gushes over Harry’s mouth, hard and relentless.

Harry pulls back, forehead pushing into Liam’s as he gives a breathy chuckle before he moves his lips forward again, his body following. Suddenly, Liam’s back is against the couch cushions and Harry’s leaning over him, hands resting below Liam’s ears, legs on either side of his hips.

The kissing is intense, though not the kind Liam would describe as hot or particularly heavy. Their lips slide against one another, soft and tender, and Liam feels winded by the weight of it all.

Liam’s hands move from Harry’s hips to his thighs as he shifts up the couch, the thought flashing across his mind so quickly he barely has time to acknowledge it before he’s acting, gripping Harry’s left knee and pulling, twisting his hips in a move that causes their faces to separate as Harry’s back hits the seat cushions of the couch, a breath huffing out of him. At this, he’s frantic – his large hands come up to frame Liam’s face desperately, pull him in so Harry can lick away the beer on his tongue, bite at his lips, grind up into him.

Liam groans, hand landing heavily next to Harry’s head before sliding into Harry’s curls, the headband shoved away in haste.

His lips slow now, leaving Harry’s with a final, soft kiss. He brings his head up to look at him – his curls lick his cheekbones; he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, Liam glimpsing the pink of his tongue curling over it; his cheeks are pink and hot, his green eyes bright in the low light of the room. His plaid shirt is twisted, and the low neckline of it exposes the swallows by his collarbones.

Liam stares into his eyes, though, bringing his left hand up from Harry’s knee – which presses hotly into Liam’s hip – to brush his thumb over one of Harry’s temples, tracing the side of his jaw before letting his lips follow, gentle.

He can’t name the feeling – the way his chest seems fit to burst, his stomach squirming with want. His pants are uncomfortably tight now, and the heat of Harry beneath him is entirely distracting. But Liam finds himself wanting to take a step back, stare at Harry for minutes on end – maybe even hours – like someone might stare at an art model; trying to capture all the ways the light hits them, the curve of their spine, the softness of their hair, the fragility in their hands.

Liam wants to stare and stare and stare, but instead he pushes his face into Harry’s neck, places his lips over his pulse point, and sucks.

Harry’s hands scratch at Liam’s scalp, no hair to grasp, and after only a few seconds they come down to push at Liam’s cheeks, get him away.

“Stop?” Liam breathes, unable to look away from the red blooming on Harry’s neck.

“No,” Harry pants out, a grin breaking onto his face, “Bedroom.”

They climb clumsily from the couch, Liam nearly falling over when Harry knocks into him, their teeth clacking together painfully. Harry grimaces, and Liam has to bite his lip to stop from laughing, but they make it there in the end, a few stops in the hallway for Harry to lick into Liam’s mouth, soft and wet.

Harry doesn’t seem to have the time nor the care to cater to Liam’s curiosity, pulling Liam’s henley up despite the fact that Liam’s intrigued by the keyboard on Harry’s desk and the photo of what must be his sister on his bedside, bright purple hair and all.

The bed’s a double, and although technically it’s meant to be able to fit two people, it doesn’t do this comfortably. So when Harry falls back onto it, pulling a shirtless Liam with him, Liam cages him in with his arms on either side of his head to avoid crushing him. Harry’s patience must be thin, now, for he lifts himself up to attack Liam’s lips once more, the scrape of Liam’s stubble causing him to moan. Liam feels bad for a second at the beard burn that’s likely to appear tomorrow, but Harry’s moving down his neck now to his shoulder, sucking and licking. Liam’s looking down at the side of his face with half-lidded eyes.

With a small and precise nip, Liam jolts, eyes widening. Harry looks up at him, mischievous, the sharp pain of his bite to Liam’s bicep throbbing a little. Liam chuckles, lifting his left arm to push into Harry’s hair, bringing his head back to bite a kiss into his lips.

They’re on the edge of the bed, half of their legs hanging off; so when Liam makes his way down and down and down, his knees hit the floor with an arousing pang of pain before he’s looking up at Harry, plaid shirt gaping open, twisted all around. He’s up on his elbows, chest heaving, as Liam unbuttons his jeans.

“Shit,” Harry breathes, his breath quickening when Liam’s fingers brush against the hardness in his briefs. He lifts his arse up, and Liam pulls his jeans down gently.

They both seem to realise Harry’s boots are still on at the same time, and Liam doesn’t bother to let Harry continue with the insane assumption that they pause for even a second, the assumption that’s bound to come from his parted lips. Instead, Liam leans down to breath hotly over Harry, pushing forward after a few moments to mouth over him, wet and insistent.

“ _Jesus,_ ” Harry bites out, and Liam can hear him flop back onto the bed, a flick of his eyes glimpsing Harry’s hands moving up into his own hair.

Liam runs his hands up Harry’s bare thighs, the muscles twitching, before curling around the elastic of his briefs and pulling them down, lifting his head so Harry’s dick doesn’t hit him in the face as it bobs out.

He doesn’t waste any time, grasping a hand at the base and licking the tip, moving down the side to his hand and back up again, slow and wet.

Harry grunts, and Liam lets him rest on Liam’s bottom lip as he looks up, seeing Harry’s dark gaze from where he’s lifted onto his elbows again.

His knees are starting to ache just a pinch, but when Harry’s hand comes to cradle his cheek, rings warm against the bone, the pain is forgotten.

Liam hums as he takes Harry in, making the latter moan loudly. His pants and moans echo in the room, the late hour meaning the street outside is relatively quiet, exacerbating the sounds within the bedroom. Liam can’t imagine many people are out and about on a Thursday night, waiting to hear the sounds of Harry breathing out Liam’s name on every other exhale, soft and reverent; or the way the bed creaks with every soft thrust of Harry’s hips, or the slick sound of Liam’s hand moving up and down.

“Liam,” Harry moans after another few minutes, and it’s loud, louder than Liam is sure the neighbours prefer, “ _Fuck–_ off, _off_ –”

Liam pulls away, but only enough to let Harry come over his jaw, his lips taking some of it. Harry groans, long and low, Liam’s hand on his dick pumping him steadily through it.

He curls up, shuddering, once he’s done, before grabbing at Liam’s wrist to stop his hand, pulling him up and on top of him.

Before Liam can do or say much – about how he’s rock hard in his own jeans, how the sounds Harry made are almost as good as his singing, how Liam wouldn’t mind hearing them again in the near future, singing and all; before he can do any of that, Harry’s pressing a bruising kiss into his lips, licking hard at his own come.

Liam’s cock gives an impatient twitch.

Even though his dick isn’t thanking him, Liam slows it all down again, leisurely sucking on Harry’s top lip and soothing away any nips of his teeth with his tongue. He presses a thumb into Harry’s jaw, opening his mouth wider, deepening the kiss until he’s not entirely sure where he ends and Harry begins.

“You’re–” _God,_ Liam can’t speak, his lips feeling bee-stung and clumsy, Harry all over his face and everywhere in front of him. Liam really likes him like this, a little pliant, but still impatient, waiting for Liam to let him touch, let him kiss and suck and pull a climax out of Liam that’ll leave him trembling. “You’re–” Liam’s breath hitches as Harry bites gently at his jaw, cleaning up, “ _Sensational._ ”

Harry grins into their next kiss, his jeans still a tangle around his shins.

It’s quick after that, the echo of their time together making everything bright and fast but slow and dimly lit all at once, like a molasses that Liam’s riveted watching, hours ticking by in the blink of an eye by the sheer miracle of it all.

It’s made even better when, after Liam’s left shattered, with messy abs giving little quivers, Harry sits up to take off his boots and shove his pants fully off, and nearly falls off the bed in the process.

As Harry regains his balance, the look on his face morphing from horror into one of relief, Liam laughs. He laughs long and loud and embarrassingly.

Harry flops back down next to him, fully naked, curls stubbornly tickling his face. He chuckles, head turned toward Liam, before he’s joining in on the laughter. It’s infectious, and Liam’s eye crinkles have always been the kind of thing people either made fun of, or matched with glee.

There’s a feeling, the sort of thing Liam would usually balk at – something that reminds him of long brown hair and dancing to Justin Timberlake late at night; it’s a feeling that he knows is likely seeding itself right into the deep recesses of his chest just now. It’s the kind of feeling he always runs away from.

But as Harry’s ringed fingers brush at Liam’s eye crinkles and his grin turns into a soft smile, eyes glittering in the light of his bedside lamp... Liam’s limbs feel heavy, tired, and not at all in the mood for running.

Liam brushes a brief kiss against that smile, and forgets to think about feelings at all.

 

***

 

**2018**

 

The knock at his door wakes him, head cottony and eyes stuck together with sleep. He’s exhausted in every way he can imagine. Looking to the clock, he sees that it reads just past three in the morning.

 _Who’s at the door at this hour?_ He thinks groggily, pushing himself out of bed and stumbling into the hallway, feet dragging on the wooden floors of his flat. His joggers almost make him trip a few times as he pushes up his loose Henley and scratches his stomach.

“Lou, if you’ve forgot your keys–” Liam unlocks the door and swings the door open, fully ready to chastise his flatmate for doing this to him again, but having to stop short at the picture in front of him.

“Liam,” Harry says, lifting his head from between his shoulders. He pushes back off the doorjamb, both his arms falling to his sides. He’s not wearing the same obnoxious shirt he was at the concert; instead he’s changed into a plain black long-sleeved top, thick to withstand the biting autumn air outside, London’s temperatures not easing up. His hair is greasy around his flushed face, like he ran here. Improbable, considering the club Liam had come from was smack bang in the middle of London. “Can I come in?”

Liam stares at him, his newly woken brain trying to process everything. “It’s three in the morning.” He says, confused.

Harry’s face falls the tiniest bit; like the expression he was wearing before has been chipped away at slightly.

“Sure,” Harry replies, giving a weak smile, “Of course. Sorry. Just–” He brings a hand up to pull at his bottom lip, a tiny dent appearing on his forehead, “Thought I should ask now, y’know? Whilst I’ve mustered up the courage.” A smile appears again, dimples ghosting in his cheeks. His eyes are glassy, like he’s had a few too many drinks, maybe. He’s steady on his feet, though – alarmingly for the hour, actually – and his gaze is so focused Liam has trouble believing he’s under the influence of any kind of substance.

“Right,” says Liam, slow and measured. He’s not entirely sure what’s happening here, only that he’s tired and he’s feeling slightly ill at the sight of Harry before him, smiling like he didn’t just grab Liam’s heart and _squeeze_ barely four hours ago. “What’s that, then?” Liam asks, frowning.

Harry hesitates, his thumbs playing with the rings on each hand. He leans forward a bit, his boots giving him some height on Liam who’s simply in old socks. His teeth brush over his bottom lip before he grins, cocking his head a little. The dimples are out in full force now, and Liam almost misses the question because of them.

“Would you want to go on a date sometime, Liam?” Harry’s smile is wide and alluring, and Liam’s staring at his pink lips before he can stop himself, quickly forcing his gaze up to Harry’s eyes once he realises what he’s doing. Harry’s eyebrows rise in question, face pleasant and body language a soft seduction.

Liam moves the door the smallest amount to pretend there’s some sort of barrier between himself and the man in front of him – because he’s a man, there’s no denying; with his failed stubble that comes in as the faintest goatee, barely anything at all; with his shirt clinging to his toned muscles, lean and long; with his strong jaw, softened by a smile and inquiring eyes; with his large hands, dextrous fingers playing with rings whilst he waits for Liam to say something. Harry’s a man, not the boy Liam met in a smoky pub back in 2013.

His smile fades, his eyes seeming to darken with another emotion, and Liam swallows thickly as the silence continues.

There’s something to be said, Liam thinks, about the way Harry looks at people. It’s razor-sharp, like you’re the only person who exists in the world. Liam had forgotten how it felt. Now, though – with Harry staring so intently at him – Liam realises exactly why he’d tried so hard to forget in the first place; it’s _dangerous_ , this way Harry looks at people.

But, most of all, it’s the way Harry looks at _Liam_ that’s dangerous.

“Liam?” Harry prompts, eyes darting across Liam’s face hastily, dimples disappeared and eyes glassy still.

Isn’t this what Liam’s been dreading? Isn’t this why he was trying to distance himself in the first place? How can he possibly redeem their relationship from here? Either he admits right now what happened in Harry’s flat on a Thursday night way back when, meaning Harry’s eyes will widen, he’ll apologise, and there will be an awkward silence where Harry wishes he could take back his invitation until Liam declines – and the relief on Harry’s face will be palatable, Liam knows. Either he does that, or he says yes – and then what? Liam has to keep the fact they slept together a secret? Who even knows if they’ll work out? It’ll be like Dani all over again – the awkward non-replies of affection. Liam will fall in love deeper than before and then have to extract himself from the situation just like he did last time, Dani’s brown eyes concerned and hurt but not damaged beyond repair. Liam’s not strong enough for that, not strong enough to be broken by Harry twice.

“We... we don’t really know each other, Harry.” Liam says quietly, biting the inside of his lip. Harry’s face falls properly this time, any remnants of hope or happiness stripped from his features. He looks away, down the hall past Xanthe’s room – always smelling strongly of sage – and nods his head, jerky and uncoordinated. He turns back suddenly, however.

“We could,” He tells Liam, voice soft and a little raspy. It’s been a long night, and Harry played his first gig in a while only hours ago. “That’s what dating’s for, innit?”

Liam doesn’t know what else to say. He can’t bring himself to utter that two-letter word, to see Harry respond to that. It’s caught in his throat, hooked into the sides of his oesophagus like a permanent fixture.

“Harry–” Liam clears his voice, closing his eyes to rub at them, tired and wan and at the end of his thread with all of this, “I– it’s three A.M.” Liam stops rubbing and blinks away the blurs and the lights and sees Harry wipe at his own face, the hour getting to him as well. “I need to sleep.”

“Right,” Harry laughs but it’s a little wry, like Liam’s a small child for wanting to sleep in the middle of the night, like Liam’s just told him ‘I can’t because my mum said I couldn’t’. Any other day and Liam might prickle at that, defensive; his limbs feel too heavy for it right now, though. Harry’s eyes dart to the ceiling, his mouth twisting instead of forming words. “Yeah,” he continues after a pause, clearing his own throat and taking a step back. Liam hadn’t realised how close he’d gotten, barely two feet away despite the door digging into Liam’s left side. “Goodnight, then.”

“Night, Harry.” Liam mumbles, watching as the long-haired musician turns; Liam glimpses him bring up a ringed hand to push his curls about his head before Liam closes the door. His forehead lands on the inner side of it, his eyelids falling in defeat.

 _It’s done,_ he thinks. _It’s over._

Now he can sleep.

 

***

 

Zayn calls him when Hush’s album is released on the ninth, his voice incredulous on the other end as Liam ignores the loud, alcohol-induced chatter of Eleanor and Sophia on his couch.

“You told me you had writer’s block, not that you were credited for half the album!” He exclaims.

“More than half of those are collabs with Eleanor, Zayn,” Liam sighs, scratching at his stubbled jaw patiently, “She’d kill me if I wrote half the album.”

“Whatever, bro.” Zayn laughs, and he can hear Louis’ voice in the background before suddenly he’s in Liam’s ear.

“We’re coming over,” he tells Liam, “No excuses. I know those two are there already and this is a proper celebration, yeah? Zayn will bring the good stuff–”

_“Babe–”_

“–and we expect some food upon our arrival. See you soon, Payno.”

Liam shakes his head with exasperation as the line goes dead, locking his mobile and leaving it on the kitchen counter so he’s not distracted by its silence. He sculls the last of his beer and grabs another from the fridge, making his way back to the couch to sit down heavily.

“Eight thousand copies in a day!” Eleanor shrieks, gulping down some cider, “Eight fucking thousand, darlings!”

Sophia bursts out laughing.

“Babe, please,” She chokes out, holding her stomach, “You sound like an absolute tosser.”

“You really do,” Liam chimes in, taking a pull from his newly crisp beer and smiling when Eleanor glares at him – playfully this time, thankfully, “But for now we need to order the takeaway because Zayn and Louis are coming ‘round.”

“Ooh,” Sophia says, already a little giddy off of her vodka and lemonade, “How’d that pan out?”

Liam rolls his eyes.

“They made up, I guess. Louis won’t talk about it.”

“What?” Eleanor asks, looking between them, “What happened?”

“You’ll see,” Sophia says elusively, smirking behind the rim of her glass, “And you’ll absolutely _die._ ”

Liam can’t help but laugh, shaking his head at her antics even though a heavy weight sits in his chest, his fingers feeling a little numb as they hold his bottle. He feels good about the album – it’s a strong debut, and the label’s already told them to expect a tour very soon to work off of the hype of the release. Things seem to be, finally, working out.

There’s a part of him that can’t sit still, though. A little slither of him that has words and a melody bouncing around his head, begging to be put to paper. He pushes it aside, though, when Zayn and Louis arrive, Zayn throwing a small bag at Liam with a smirk.

“I’m gay.” Louis announces, deadpan, after a prolonged standstill, Eleanor looking him up and down.

Eleanor raises a sardonic eyebrow.

“Me, too.” she says. Louis narrows his eyes at her a moment before taking a seat, Zayn pulling out his engraved lighter from his jean pocket as he lands heavily beside him.

They light the first spliff and pass it around, Eleanor leaning against Sophia languidly in her high. Zayn never kicked the habit once he started, so he seems only barely buzzed by the time Liam’s really feeling it. Their Indian food comes just after, and Liam’s pretty sure he over-tips significantly but figures he’ll be able to cover it soon enough with a tour on the way. He can’t wait to stop buying discount bread, foamy and stale in his mouth on the best of days.

“Sorry,” Louis mumbles into Liam’s shoulder about an hour later when Zayn goes to get more ciders for all of them, “About Thursday.”

The weed’s well soaked into his bones by now that instead of freezing up, Liam just lets his head fall back, neck resting on the hard back of the couch.

“You told him?” Liam sighs, thinking of Harry’s falling face through a haze of dizziness and slow-motion glimpses of years ago.

“Nah,” Louis says, shifting so he’s lying fully back onto Liam. Zayn returns and sits by him, tattooed hand heavy and high up on Louis’ inner thigh. “Just gave him our address. Seemed... seemed... I don’t know the word.”

“Excited?” Zayn drawls, inhaling the last of the second blunt, breathing out the smoke in a way that draws attention to his red lips. Louis seems transfixed, conversation forgotten.

Liam doesn’t want to think about it, grabbing for the cigarette to really get the dregs of it and ignoring the way Louis is pushing his hips into Zayn’s hand.

He downs the rest of his beer – _how many is that now?_ – before leaving them to it, plonking himself down on the other chair right next to Eleanor. Sophia’s slid to the floor by now, eyes half-lidded and watching the two men Liam just left behind.

“Got a song, yeah?” Liam mentions, his breath hot against the side of Eleanor’s face. He pulls back when she turns her head, pink tips looking fiery in the dim light of the room.

“Is that right?” Her voice sounds even worse through the fog of everything that’s running through Liam’s veins right now, but he barrels on.

“Let’s work it soon.”

Eleanor hums, hand coming up to pat Liam’s head. He doesn’t know whether that’s what does it, or the way her fingers scratch at his scalp, of the push of Sophia’s shoulder against his legs – but Liam falls asleep right there, content if this is to be his future.

The next morning, things don’t seem so positive.

Eleanor’s groaning in his ear when he wakes, grating and obnoxious.

“Piss off.” Liam grunts, pushing at her. She pushes back, and Liam shields his eyes from the sudden light on his face as he nearly falls off the loveseat.

“You lot are pathetic,” Zayn says through a cigarette – normal, this time – before opening the window and sitting on the sill, lighting up, “Can’t even take half a blunt and some beers.”

“Shut up, Malik,” Sophia grumbles, rubbing at her eyes, “Not all of us are so seasoned.”

Zayn cracks a smile. Louis is still fast asleep, mouth open on the couch, shirt rucked up and belly visible.

He wakes when Zayn kisses him goodbye – something about a shoot in Hyde Park – before he trudges to his own bedroom and shuts the door, looking like he’ll sleep the rest of the day away. Liam clears up the takeaway containers – Sophia lending a hand with bleary eyes – before sculling a cool glass of water to ease the ache in his temples. Eleanor grabs her things hastily and ushers Sophia out too quickly for Liam to suggest going out for breakfast.

“We’ll see you this afternoon, yeah?” She calls out just before the door closes behind her.

“This afternoon?” Liam mutters to himself, frowning. He’s just about to have a shower, vowing to figure that out later, when he glimpses his phone.

 _Interview with Beats 1. Car will pick you up at 2pm_ , his text from Lucy reads. He flicks his eyes up to glimpse the time, sees 9:33 stare up at him. He groans, dropping his phone back onto the kitchen counter and heading toward the bathroom for that much needed shower.

The interview goes smoothly – the three of them laugh through some of the more uncomfortable moments, some of their training from the past few weeks coming in to play when Liam has to swerve away from a personal lives question, talking about the nature of celebrity and how they’re still getting used to it and all that.

Ironically, Liam has his first fan interaction a few days later.

He’s jogging through Regent’s Park late morning, Freddie Mercury in his ears, when he feels a pull on his arm. He whips around quickly, stumbling a few steps back to see a girl stumble back, too. He takes out his headphones, Queen cut off abruptly at the motion.

“Sorry,” Liam gasps out, sweat lining the collar of his old and faded t-shirt, “I was listening to music.”

“That’s okay!” She says, smiling bright. She’s got white blonde hair and winged eyeliner. She’s bundled up in a grey hoodie, dark blue jeans and black converse making her look like a student. The backpack on her shoulders supports that theory, and Liam’s entirely confused as to why she’s stopped him.

“Uhm,” He stutters, smiling quizzically, “What can I do for you?

“Oh!” She starts, a blush making its way onto her pale cheeks, “Sorry, I’m an idiot. Uhm, I’m a huge fan. I love you guys. The album was amazing!”

Liam raises his eyebrows, smile forming on his face without his permission.

“Yeah?” he asks, grinning now, “Sorry, babe. I’d hug you but I’m all sweaty.” He gestures down at himself, shorts over black skins, black t-shirt sticking slightly to his chest.

“I don’t mind,” She seems embarrassed at that but holds out her arms. Liam gives her a hug, feeling like he’s a completely different person with the way this is all unfolding. “ _[It’s Just Us Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnuMMkDGjmE) _ is my absolute favourite,” She gushes as she pulls away, flattening her hair down with her hands, though the curls look fine to Liam. She pauses, then her eyes widen and she’s rushing to continue, “Not that I don’t love your songs! _Volcano Girls_ is amazing.”

Liam smiles, trying not to laugh. She’s sweet, really. A nice first fan experience, all up.

“That’s alright, love,” Liam says, and he sees the way she relaxes, “Eleanor’s a great writer.”

“Can I please get a picture?” She asks him, eyes imploring, “It’s just, my friends won’t believe me.”

“Of course,” Liam tells her, surprised her friends would know him at all, “Get your phone out.”

They take a few selfies, Liam apologising for his sweaty self and chatting for a few minutes before he tells her he’s got to continue on his run.

“It was lovely to meet you, though.” He says. She’s biting her lip nervously but Liam makes the decision for her, hugging her once more before saying goodbye, waving as he jogs away.

When he gets back to the flat, Louis is smirking at him.

“What?” Liam asks him slowly, hesitant at the way Louis is eyeing him up.

“Liam is the sweetest, humblest person ever!” Louis quotes, voice pitched a little higher, “He spoke to me for like ten minutes even though he was on a jog in Regent’s! BUY REBELLION NOW!”

Liam scrunches up his face, a little embarrassed.

“I was just being nice,” He grumbles as Louis comes over, shoving his phone in Liam’s face. There’s two of the pictures they took below the text, and Liam looks sweaty but smiley in both of them. He looks at the account, though, and sees that Louis is reading a retweet, not the original. “Who’s _LPayneUpdates_?” he asks, frowning.

“It’s one of your update accounts,” Louis tells him, snatching his phone back with an eye roll, “Any moderately famous person has them.”

Liam’s frown deepens.

“How long’s this been going on for?”

“Hmm,” Louis considers, lips pursed, “A few months, I think. Definitely since the single came out.”

“Huh,” Liam replies, a little confused but brushing it off quickly, “Weird.”

“What’s weird is you not knowing this,” Louis says, looking at Liam sceptically, “They even got wind of you going to Tesco’s once and only buying a lemon. Love you, Payno, but you’re a strange lad.”

He brushes past Liam to put the kettle on in the kitchen, reaching for a mug.

“Go for a shower, you fuckin’ stink.”

He’s forgotten about it by the time tour rehearsals start up on the sixteenth, his phone still silent. Liam hasn’t listened to... well, not the whole thing, not after the gig. He’s terrified of what else he’ll hear, the other songs up for misinterpretation. He can’t very well text him if he hasn’t heard the record, can he? That’s what Liam tells himself, anyway, as he sits down behind his drums, drumsticks cool and familiar in his palms. He’s still got some callouses, but they need to harden up if he’s to be playing most nights.

“You’re flying out on the 27th,” Lucy tells the three of them when she arrives after their lunch break, her red hair sleek and shiny under the minimal stage lights. It’s a small venue that’s letting them practice, a theatre-type place. “Then you’ll fly back the morning of the 30th to continue rehearsals after a few days off. It’s all systems go from here on out until your booked gigs.”

“Wait,” interrupts Liam, shaking his head to clear it of what feels like cobwebs, “Flying out?”

“Liam, you wanker,” Eleanor says, rolling her eyes with a smile on her face, “We got nominated for a Billboard Award.”

“What?” Liam gasps, glancing between his two bandmates, “Since when?”

“Since the Beats 1 interview!” Sophia exclaims, shoving him lightly in the shoulder. “How out of it have you been?”

Liam would rather not answer that. He’s just glad he doesn’t have to organise it – they’ll be given their flight details via e-mail and a car will arrive to drive them to the airport. They’ll be given their outfits by their newly hired stylist when they get to Vegas. Ordinarily, Liam might be trying to make a weekend of it, but considering their full schedule he figures no late nights and back to London as soon as possible will be best.

He spends the rest of the week aching, arms twinging with every miniscule effort to hit a drum or a cymbal. His hands are red raw, callouses only helping to avoid bleeding but that’s about it. He tapes them up a few days in, not wanting to pop any blisters, as he nods his head to that beat in his head, a trip step thing that involves a lot of the bass drum. It’s forming in his head, the words curling around it with every progression. It’s more synthesised than Liam usually goes for, but he knows Eleanor’s voice can take it – he knows the higher register he’s thinking will fit in with her timbre.

He just can’t start it off, that’s all. Every minute that he’s not going through the light schedule, that he’s not engaging in improv jams with Sophia’s lead guitar, he’s trying to fill the gap.

It’s near the end of the day on Saturday that he approaches Eleanor about it. Sophia’s on the phone to her mum in the other room, and Eleanor’s tuning the acoustic guitar in her lap, her own bass sitting off to the side, well-used.

“So that song I told you about?” Liam starts, sticks in his hands and absently tapping that trip beat against the table in front of him.

Eleanor looks up.

“This is the beat...” He trails off, Eleanor stopping her tuning to listen to it, the little trip making her smile.

“I like that,” she says, “It’s almost R’n’B,”

He sings the chorus, high and grating like he knows Eleanor loves. Her eyes light up.

“What’s the instrumental?” She prods, starting to hum a lower register, “I like the idea of an ominous tone.” She places her left hand on the fret again quickly, strums a B, then a D, transitioning into a F sharp minor like she’s reading off of sheet music.

“Yeah,” Liam says, abandoning his thoughts of something a little lighter, “Layered in the chorus, that’s good. I’m just... stuck on the first verse.”

“What do you mean?” Eleanor says, echoing his chorus before stopping her play altogether.

“I can’t get the words out,” he vents, frowning, gripping his sticks so hard his knuckles go white, “It’s just not clicking.”

“Hang on,” she says, putting aside the guitar to rummage through her bag, pulling out some paper and a pen, “Write down what you’ve got.”

It seems thin – very thin – when he finally puts it to paper for the first time. Eleanor looks at it, eyes narrowing as she sees the chords he’s written next to the lyrics.

She hums, goes on to say, “I’ve had something in my head this past week – but it was more like a poem than anything lyrical.” She scratches it down above Liam’s pen, “I think we should start with a sneak peek into the chorus, get that heavy backing in there and grab people’s attention. Maybe,” she starts, thoughtful, “we can have the verses be lighter – like you were originally thinking for the whole song.”

Liam frowns, pulling the paper toward himself so he can read over her additions and adjustments.

“Yeah,” he says, gaining confidence, “This could work.” He frowns again, though, “Soph’s going to want to distort the hell out of this.”

“Yeah,” Eleanor says with a grin on her lips, “I know.”

By the next day they’ve pretty much finished it, the fastest they’ve ever worked on a song together. They’ve even managed to sneak in a few rehearsals along the way.

“We literally just brought out an entire album.” Sophia states, eyes wide as she sees Eleanor tune her guitar for the arpeggios at the beginning. Liam’s going through the motions of his beat without hitting the drums, letting Eleanor get her instrument right. Despite her words, Sophia is fixing her distortion pedals, expression bewildered.

“The muse does what the muse wants, babe,” Eleanor explains, running through the chords quickly before, “You should know that by now. Besides,” she adds, adjusting her microphone, “Lucy says it’s good promo.”

“When I said that,” Lucy starts, huffing, “I meant professionally recorded and released acoustically. Not me filming on an iPhone.”

“This is more authentic,” Sophia explains, small smile on her round face, “Trust me. Our fans will love it.”

Liam balks a little at the mentions of fans, the white-haired girl coming to mind. Aubrey, he’d read on Twitter. Her name was Aubrey.

 _I hope she likes it,_ he thinks, stomach churning.

“You ready?” Eleanor asks Lucy, looking into the small iPhone lens. She’s far back so she can catch all of them, the microphone on the phone uncovered and unlikely to sound too static.

“As ever!” She calls out.

“One, two,” Eleanor starts, her head nodding as Liam adjusts his mic a final time, “One, two, three, four.”

[Her guitar starts, high and reedy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xZAJeYzrtUY), before Sophia’s distorted bass takes over along with one hit of Liam’s bass drum. He can’t see her face, but she’s almost definitely smug. Sophia loves distortion.

When the verse starts up is when Liam can begin his trip beat, frowning in concentration to keep it up against the guitar’s melody.

Once Eleanor breaks into the chorus, her head rearing back from the microphone, Liam starts his back-up.

“You see, it’s pulling my heart down, pulling my heart down.” he harmonises.

“I'd like to go back there but again; I can only stare, I can only...” Eleanor’s high notes hit his ears through the earpiece, a perfect contrast to the minor key of the song.

Liam joins her for the repeat, soft and high.

The instrumental break is too thin, Liam realises, but this is a demo of sorts, recorded on an iPhone and not entirely intended for anything but to get out of Liam’s head – and maybe Eleanor’s, if the relieved look on her face once she wrote down the first verse was anything to go by.

“Do you know how I feel knocking on your door ‘til my knuckles bleed?” Eleanor sings, and Liam bites his lip to distract from his own lyrics before joining in again.

“I can't perform miracles,” The both of them almost scream, “It's dedication time... oh! Oh! Oh!”

Liam’s swinging his head back and forth with the chorus, singing the back-up, getting to the final bridge and echoing Eleanor.

“Will my knees buckle if my head,” Eleanor sings, “Never fully heals, never fully heals?”

Liam ceases his drums, Sophia’s bass toning down the distortion until it’s just Eleanor and her guitar left.

He’s breathing heavily by the time they’re done, and Lucy’s arms come down to place the phone underneath her arm so she can clap, smiling brightly.

“Great! So good!”

“The instrumentals need something, Els,” Sophia says, frowning, and Liam’s happy she was thinking the same, “Maybe some keyboards?”

“Who’s going to play them, Soph?” Eleanor snaps – she gets a bit defensive, sometimes, and so Sophia rolls her eyes.

“A touring member. When we record, I can play it. Not hard, babe.”

Eleanor’s shoulders lower, her hackles visibly appeased. Liam tries not to laugh.

“It was good, though,” he says, standing up to walk around his set, flipping a stick before he stops in front of them, “I think we could play it, even, if we wanted.”

Eleanor looks at him, her eyes searching his face. Her chin wobbles a bit, and his eyes shoot to hers, questioning.

“Fine,” she hisses, pulling her guitar over her head and shoving it into Liam’s hands, “But if people don’t like it, I’m blaming you two.”

She stalks away. Liam tries to catch Sophia’s eye, but she’s frowning at Eleanor’s back, a hurt look on her face.

Liam swallows, smirk falling from his face. It seems that weird tension is back.

“I’ve posted it,” Lucy tells them, giving a worried smile, “I’d say you’re about done for the day, now.”

 _Just when I thought things were working out,_ he thinks to himself as he helps Sophia tidy up the best they can in preparation for the next day’s rehearsal, giving her a soft hug when they part ways outside, Liam opting for a late night tube ride to clear his thoughts.

He’s scrolling through Twitter – four stops away from home – when he sees the retweet, Harry Styles. giving his two cents.

_Heartwrenching. H_

The video sits below it, a play symbol smack bang in the centre. The Hush tweet is standard, a _New song rehearsal! Give us your thoughts! #ICanOnlyStare_

Liam clenches his jaw and turns to rummage through his backpack for his headphones, shoving them into the jack and tapping play as he pushes them into his ears.

The playback’s pretty steady, and Liam will have to thank Lucy later for her camerawork. But it’s only within the first thirty seconds that Liam sees what Harry means.

Eleanor’s face is strained as she sings through that first verse, her “You know I'm grieving, giving off heat, oh! Cross my heart, hope to die; you and I, you and I.” looking particularly emotional as she breathes through it, flicking her hair out of her face. Her breaks in the chorus have her clenching her jaw, looking down at her guitar even though she’s not playing – something she almost never does even when she _is_ playing.

Liam doesn’t look at himself, too worried about what he might see there, what Harry might have witnessed in his hits of the drum and grazes over the cymbals and high-hats. Sophia just looks concentrated as she adjusts her pedals, a steady bass.

He’s tempted – so tempted – to hit reply; to even go into his messages and send a text, maybe.

There’s something holding him back, though... and for once Liam listens.

What good did indulging ever do him before?

He enjoys the rest of the tube ride home in silence, headphones still in.

 

***

 

“I’m here with Hush, girl duo turned threesome–” Eleanor pulls a face at that, and Liam bites the inside of his cheek to hide his snort, “–who are nominated for Top Rock Song tonight. Tell me, how do you feel being a new band, your first awards show the _Billboard Awards?_ ”

“It’s really great,” answers Sophia, leaning forward a tad to speak into the mic positioned in front of them, her black, almost see-through dress making the interviewer’s eyes dart down for a second before returning to her face. “We’re so lucky to have been nominated. Our single was a re-release this year with a music video and everything, so we truly weren’t expecting to be acknowledged for it.”

Eleanor leans forward, straightened hair falling past her shoulders – a white button down with black vest nowhere near as revealing as Sophia’s number – to answer.

“It was about the only song we had for _months._ ” Eleanor snarks, smirk on her face. “Then Liam came along and we actually got somewhere.” She sounds reluctantly grateful, and the wry twist of her mouth lets him know she’s only saying this because she’s probably been told to. Liam holds back a grimace.

“Yes!” The interviewer exclaims over the sounds of all the other interviews, cheers of fans and the calls of the paparazzi. “Your new addition! How did that come about?”

“Well,” Liam starts, crossing his arms, his all-black suit feeling stuffy and hot in the Vegas sun, a stark contrast his wintery home, “I’ve known Sophia for years – we actually went to the same school.”

“And when I heard he was looking for work, I asked him to come help us put an album together.” Sophia explains, smiling at him with dark red lips.

“Then he never left!” Eleanor pipes in, laughing dryly, her dark eye make-up making it seem sinister. “Thanks for your questions.” She adds when one of their handlers tugs on her arm. The interviewer wishes them luck as they’re moved along, standing for photos and nearly getting blinded before being ushered to their allocated seats.

“Is that McFly?” Liam asks once they sit down, straining around the back of Sophia’s head to get a better look, “Christ, this is... I mean, I _knew_ it was a big deal but it’s never really felt that way until now.”

“I honestly try not to think about it.” Eleanor says, seemingly less bitter than she was outside. Her oscillating moods are giving Liam whiplash – and by the look on Sophia’s face, it’s not just him.

There are a lot of categories, and a lot of performances to get through. Liam’s constantly getting up out of his chair to grab the three of them drinks. He’s trying to moderate it so they don’t end up drunk and embarrassing themselves, but it’s more difficult than he ever expected. No wonder Kanye made a fool of himself all those years ago – there’s nothing else to do.

Lorde _does_ come up to them at one point, though, which is nerve-wracking as all hell.

“Our next performer blew us all away with his debut album in 2015, the single _Do I Wanna Know?_ hitting number one and number two on the UK and US charts respectively – staying there for four weeks straight. He’s gracing us with his newest song tonight, which hit number one internationally within its first thirty-six hours; the first and only single from his latest album _Vignette_ . Please welcome – Harry Styles, with _Closer!_ ”

Sophia grabs his arm, her nails digging in through his jacket. Liam’s fine. He’s good. He’s heard it before, seen Harry sing it. It’s been all over the radio. Liam’s totally fine.

“Stranded in this spooky town,” Harry belts out, his jacket looking military-inspired with its gold lining, “Stoplight is swaying and the phone lines are down.”

Liam can’t take his eyes off the big screen – he’s too far away to get a good look at Harry in person from his seat, but the green of his eyes is still striking through a screen, his hair falling into his eyes as he continues to sing.

“She took my heart, I think she took my soul; with the moon I run...”

“Liam,” Sophia says into his ear, her breath warm and uncomfortable. He feels too hot, the alcohol hitting him in a blur of song, green, and red lipstick. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Liam croaks, pulling his hands into his lap so she no longer has a grip on him, his eyes captivated by the performance in front of him in a sick display of desperation.

Harry’s swaying from side to side with the drums, eyes closed, skin tight around his eyes. He’s a vision in black and gold, mahogany curls brushing his cheekbones and making his features stand out under the stage lights, white and teal rays striking his face from all angles.

Liam doesn’t know what he was thinking, how he possibly thought he wouldn’t encounter Harry tonight. Maybe it’s because they’re in a different country; maybe it’s because closing that door on Harry’s back felt like the end of his pain, the end of the universe picking solely on Liam James Payne. Maybe it’s because Liam was too afraid to admit that just because he implied it that night in his flat’s doorway, it didn’t really mean he said no.

“Do you think of me?” Harry leans back with the words, eyes squeezed closed and hands holding the microphone and its stand in a vice grip, “Where am I now? Baby, where do I sleep?”

His top lip curls up, his voice raspy and beautiful, “Feels so good, but I'm old! Two thousand years of chasing takin' its toll!”

His whole body glides with the music, smoothly becoming a part of it – like Harry’s the instrument they didn’t know they needed, his body an art-form in disguise.

He builds up to the solo, voice getting dirtier and harder and meaner until he screams the last line, “And it’s coming closer!”

The audience cheers in response. The people around Liam are moving with the music, bodies jerking, their faces lit up in a rapture Liam senses but can’t connect with. Harry’s out on stage, destroying himself just a little for their pleasure. Liam feels a deep sadness inside him, one that’s mixed with an unhealthy cocktail of remorse, guilt, and that ever-pesky thing: love.

“You alright?” Sophia asks again over the cheers of the crowd as Harry bows, face flat and bland on the big screen, before he walks off-stage.

Liam just nods, unable to say much of anything.

“Harry Styles rocks!” Miley shouts out to cheers throughout the arena, “And so do the songs nominated in our next category tonight: Top Rock Song.”

“That’s us!” Sophia whispers loudly, drawing a few stares. She grabs Liam’s hand in her own, her leg jiggling up and down.

“It’s fine,” Eleanor says, rolling her eyes, “We’re not going to win. Calm down, will you?”

They’re amongst Fall Out Boy, Imagine Dragons, another new band called Empire, and an older band called The Kills. Liam knows they’re not going to win – Imagine Dragons are a shoe-in for sure, their single much better produced than theirs. They’re new. New artists don’t win.

“And the Billboard Music Award goes to...” Miley starts, tapping on her iPad screen, “Hush, with their song _Make Me Wanna Die_!”

“Oh my God.” Eleanor says, and it’s a testament to their collective shock that none of them comment on her accent.

“Get up!” Sophia shrieks as people clap around them, pulling on Liam’s hand to get him standing, “Let’s go!”

They make their way to the stage in a daze, Liam’s hand still in Sophia’s. When they climb up the stairs she lets go. Eleanor’s first, giving Miley the lightest squeeze she can get away with before Sophia hugs her. Liam kisses her cheek, eyes wide, accepting the singular award on the band’s behalf.

“Well,” Eleanor says amongst some screams, “I think it’s safe to say none of us expected this.”

The audience laughs, and Liam can hardly see them for the lights in his eyes. But he’s maybe shaking a bit, hesitant smile on his face as Eleanor continues to thank their fans.

“I just want to thank Louis Tomlinson. Wouldn’t be here without you, mate. Cheers.” Liam says dumbly into the mic once Sophia’s done thanking their families. They’re shepherded off-stage, told they need to go to the press room for photos when Liam sees him. They lock eyes. Harry’s jacket shimmers in the dim lights, his dimples casting small shadows on his face, and– wait. Hang on. Why is Harry smiling? Liam sees his eye line’s shifted to just behind Liam’s shoulder, so he turns.

Sophia and Eleanor are embracing, lips locked in an enthusiastic kiss. Sophia’s hands are buried in Eleanor’s hair, their bodies crushed together.

“Guys!” Liam exclaims, exasperated but smiling, “Now is _really_ not the time!”

Eleanor simply flips him off before lingering one more moment and pulling away, grinning at Sophia as behind the scenes crew bustle around them, seemingly uncaring about the two women kissing backstage.

“That song was about me, wasn’t it?” Sophia asks, panting, “The new one?”

“Well, what I wrote of it,” Eleanor concedes, brushing her thumb underneath Sophia’s bottom lip, cleaning up her lipstick, “Now do me. We probably can’t look like we’ve just been making out.”

Harry’s gone by the time Liam turns around; and when they manage to make it to the press room with their award in Liam’s capable hands, Eleanor’s mouth is only a little bit red, fixed up by an on-site stylist before they were directed through the process of taking photos and answering some questions.

The rest of the night is a blur – they get to their hotel late, Liam opting to listen to some music in bed because Eleanor’s room is next to his and he’s not risking it – and by the time Liam even considers texting anything, he’s back in London.

Jetlagged and back in London, the time difference putting him only three hours ahead of when his plane took off. Meaning it’s eleven o’clock in the morning and Liam’s dead on his feet.

He doesn’t expect to hear from the girls for the two days they’ve got off before the last of their rehearsals, so he doesn’t feel guilty plugging his mobile in to charge and passing out. They’re playing gigs next, a few in some small venues around the UK. It feels proper, like Liam’s well and truly making it, forging his own way as he trails behind Sophia and Eleanor, two people he’ll be forever in debt to. Along with Louis.

“You look like a corpse,” said friend says as Liam swings open the door, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. “Saw you won. Congrats, Payno!”

Liam grunts his thanks, wiping a clammy palm down his face. Louis frowns, stopping the motion of his mug to his mouth.

“You poorly?” he asks, treading over to place the back of his hand on Liam’s forehead, “You’re bloody hot, mate. Burning proper. How much sleep did you get?”

“Not enough, Lou,” he croaks, and yeah – his throat’s hurting, his stomach gurgling forebodingly, “I just wan’ t’ sleep, yeah?” He brushes past him and dumps his bag on his bedroom floor when he enters, landing face-first into his pillow. His bed bounces him up a bit before settling.

“I’ll screen your calls.” Louis says in a snooty voice – not unlike Eleanor, actually – before closing the door, the sound of his pleasant singing lulling Liam to sleep in seconds.

When he wakes, it’s to the sound of something tinny, like an old radio someone’s tinkering with. He lifts his head, feeling lethargic and confused, to see his laptop open, screen dimmed but sound undoubtedly coming from it. It’s next to his head, like someone placed it there – _Louis,_ Liam thinks grumpily – and Liam’s just about to close it and go back to sleep because his stomach’s growling at him and not in a good way, when he hears a familiar accent.

“Yeah, I mean,” Harry’s voice comes from Liam’s laptop, less tinny and more nuanced now that Liam’s woken up properly, “Those are just rumours, y’know? If I was datin’ someone, you’d likely know, Nick.”

“Alright, alright,” Nick moans, and Liam can hear the smile in his voice even over radio, sitting up to hear better even though, logically, that doesn’t make sense, “We’ve got some callers for you. First on the line’s Louise; she says she was at one of your first gigs ever. Louise, are you there?”

“Hiya Harry,” a voice chirps, bubbly and excited, “How are you?”

“Hello, Louise,” answers Harry, tone slow and measured, “I’m well, thank you. How are you?”

“I’m great!” she squeaks, and Liam imagines her sitting on her bed, mobile against her ear and Harry Styles poster right in front of her, his newest album on her bedside table, “I saw you a fair few years ago now. It was before your first album. You used to do pub nights.”

“I did,” Harry confirms warmly, “Have to start out somehow.”

“Well,” Louise begins, and the first notes of hesitancy breach her tone, “I just wanted to say I really liked that one song you used to perform. Eighteen Forever?”

There’s a pause on the radio, Louise’s voice tinny because she’s on her phone. Harry breathes in and out quite loudly.

“I _do_ remember that one, actually. Been a while since I’ve thought of it.” He sounds normal, like he has no clue that’s the song that had Liam hook, line, and sinker five years ago.

“I was wondering,” Louise starts again, quite nervy now, “whether you were ever going to do a studio version? It’s just,” she rushes to add, “I love that song so much and I can only ever find partial live recordings online.”

“How about this, Louise?” Harry says, uplifted and consolatory, “I’ll play it at my next show, and you make sure you convince someone to film the whole thing.”

“Really?” Louise screeches, and Liam winces, the pounding at the back of his head rearing up at the sound, “That’s amazing. Thanks, Harry, I love you so much, your new album’s fantastic!”

“You’ve just made a young woman very happy, Harry Styles.” Nick says, and it’s obvious by his tone that he’s cut her out, and that there’s probably a smirk on his face.

Harry laughs, a rich sound that leaves Liam’s already warm face a little warmer. He’s sweating through his plaid shirt, uncomfortable and ill.

“Our next caller tells me his name is Louis – funny, that – and that he has a bone to pick with you, Harry.”

“Oh, no.” Harry remarks, the laughter still in his voice. Somehow, Liam’s not laughing – the name alone is suspicious, but when he hears the voice, it’s all but officially confirmed.

“Styles,” Louis says perfunctorily, and Liam can hear an intake of breath, like Nick or Harry are shocked, “Speaking of these pub nights. I have a friend,” he pauses, as if waiting to be signaled on.

“Go on.” Nick urges him, a little jerkily.

“This friend of mine, you see, remembers one of these pub nights you had. Remembers it quite well, in fact.”

“Louis.” Harry interrupts lowly.

“And he quite remembers you taking him home that night. Do you recall?”

The air is silent, Nick and Harry lost for words it seems. Liam swallows down a lump in his throat, queasy and in a state of shock. Louis’ just... he’s just gone and told Harry. He’s told Harry, hinted at it. Harry met him that night, Louis gave Harry their address.

Harry knows.

“Oh, God.” Liam groans, eyes stinging.

“You don’t have to answer that, Haz, we can cut him off–“

“Yeah, I do,” replies Harry firmly, and Liam groans again, head pounding all over now, “We had a lovely time. A few laughs.”

“A few laughs?” Louis asks, and his laugh can be heard both on the broadcast and through Liam’s wall. Fuck. He’s in his room. “That’s all it was?”

Harry chuckles, and Liam’s heart about breaks in two, his ribs aching with the pressure of holding his breath. He lets it out seconds later, feeling woozy.

“What do you want me to say? It was lovely.” Harry confirms, hesitating barely a moment before continuing, more softly, “He was lovely.”

“Right!” Nick interjects loudly, and Liam knows Louis’ been cut off by the loud swearing he can hear through the wall but not on radio.

“Sorry about that, Harry.” Nick begins, but Harry stops him before he can continue.

“S’alright,” Harry drawls, a little quiet, “It happens.”

“Fans, yeah? Does that happen often – people from your past trying for five minutes of fame?”

“Well, it wasn’t anywhere close to five minutes,” says Harry, tone light, “was it?”

Nick laughs, and this time Liam can’t swallow down the lump in his throat. It comes up and up and up and he’s got a hand over his mouth as he runs to the bathroom, vomiting straight into the toilet bowl with the most horrible retching sound.

“Li,” Louis pants, and suddenly he’s at Liam’s side, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Liam leans his head against his arm, tired and terrible and torn. “Li, I’m so sorry.”

“Lou,”

“I honestly thought–” He breaks off, and Liam knows he’s got a murderous look on his face, protective and angry, “I thought he wouldn’t be a prick about it, first off.”

“Let’s just,” Liam breathes out, voice trembling, “forget it, yeah? I want to forget it.”

Louis’ hand pushes through Liam’s hair again, a comforting rhythm despite the throbbing of Liam’s heart, its beat out of sync and in time with his misery.

“I just want to forget it.”

 

***

 

Despite his claims of wanting to forget, Liam doesn’t block Harry’s number. Maybe it’s serving as a reminder of what happened – that he needs to remember simply so that it doesn’t ever come about again. Either way, he glimpses texts here and there but, ultimately, just hands his phone over to Eleanor to delete them.

“This guy is seriously groveling,” she says the night of their first official gig of the small tour, eyes smoky and dark as she peers down at his mobile, her legs looking especially long encased in leather, “Quite pathetic, really.”

“Can you just delete them, please?” Liam asks, as polite as he’ll ever get anymore, perpetually empty and mostly uncaring of what people perceive of him.

She does so without another word, and Liam’s chest feels a little looser when they walk on stage forty minutes later; the wood in his hands feeling light and centred, like he’s been holding them since that hospital room in August of ’93.

It’s been two weeks, and Liam discovers that sitting behind his drum kit on stage is about the closest he gets to feeling anything.

“[Leave me!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qyVSKydUxKk)” Eleanor sings, “Lying here! ‘Cause I don’t wanna go!”

He pushes through the beat, pounding especially hard on his drums much to the displeasure of his former self, much more concerned with the state of his kit than the person he is now – someone who can hardly muster much more than mild annoyance at the inconvenience of it all.

“Brixton Academy!” Sophia shouts into her mic at the last note, the audience cheering. “Thank you for coming! This is our last song!”

The crowd laugh as Liam adjusts his mic, wiping his brow with the bottom hem of his vest to a few screams.

Eleanor goes straight into her guitar, cutting anything Sophia wanted to say off.

“[I wanna live before I die](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7_r4BOgOwA), so don't say I have to cry on one more freezing floor. I ask you to open the door and see how things could have gone.”

The concert goes on. Liam feels the blood rush through his veins, the sweat drip down his back, the tremble in his hands as his adrenaline takes over. He feels that, and it feels good to feel again, if only for a brief moment in time. If his heart pangs with every breathe, then that’s okay. Liam’s giving himself a break, letting himself have this. Harry can’t tarnish this, too.

It’s when [Sophia’s song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vf8e3OozHlI) comes on just before their encore, just her and her keyboards, that Liam has to turn away from the crowd, his face crumpling up into something unwanted. It’s not necessarily the lyrics that do it – although they’re a contributing factor – but it’s moreso the haunting way she projects her voice, an echo to her microphone that echoes in his chest.

“You’re buying stars to shut out the light,” Eleanor takes over, “We come alone and alone we die, and no matter how hard you try: I’ll always belong in the sky.”

“It’s who you are...” Sophia trails off, piano slowing to silence and then the whistles and screams of the crowd as the lights go out, the three of them walking off the stage.

“Liam,” Eleanor asks him, nails digging into his shoulder and jolting him out of it, “Babe, what’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, pushing her away.

“I’ll be fine. Give me a minute.” He downs some water, pouring the remains he can’t drink over his head and shaking off the excess. He can do this. He’s a professional.

They walk back on to more screams, and when the starting chords to _Make Me Wanna Die_ start up, the audience is the loudest they’ve been all night.

They finish with _Here And Now_ , their second single, to cheers throughout the theatre. Some girls throw underwear on stage, all of which Eleanor picks up and shoves in her own pockets with a smirk, the three of them bowing before waving and heading off the stage.

The girls are buzzing, Liam can tell; but Liam’s just weary now, feeling as if he’s coming down hard from a sugar high.

“Hey, Aubrey,” Liam greets the blonde when they’re signing a few things for the group of fans hanging out the back of the venue, their car waiting to whisk the three of them home. Liam may be dead tired and perennially sad, but he’s not a dickhead, so he’s going to talk to her. “Nice to see you again.”

“You remember me?” She asks, grinning, her hair sweaty and her mascara running a bit from her sweat.

“'Course,” Liam answers, signing her shirt, “How’d you like _It’s Just Us Now_?”

“Brilliant,” she gushes, eyes bright, and somehow Liam remembers this is why he does it, this feeling of sharing what he loves with the people who love it, “The whole concert was absolutely stellar, Liam. Thanks so much.”

“No problem.” he says, smiling at the person standing next to her.

When they get into the back of the car, Sophia and Eleanor giggling into each other’s necks, Liam sighs. He leans back in his seat, eyes closed, until they get to his flat. The girls kiss a cheek each in farewell and then Liam’s grabbing his bag, hands aching and stiff as he climbs out.

He showers once he’s through the door, wiping the sweat and the music right off of him. Louis is out with Zayn at some party, apparently important because he’s coming to Liam’s next gig instead, along with Andy and Ellie.

Despite the late hour, though, and the fatigue of his muscles, it’s like as soon as Liam’s brain sees his bed it turns right on, thinking and thinking until he finds himself in front of the TV, old reruns of _Bake Off_ playing in front of his eyes. It’s sick that he’s watching this, and he knows it, but it’s turned into a twisted form of comfort these days; and Liam will take any comfort he can get.

He grabs his phone, settling deeper into the cushions for what’s bound to be a long night, thankful that he’s not got anything to do until the day after tomorrow.

A text comes in as he unlocks it, and Liam feels a little divine in that moment before he reads it.

 _Niall Horan won’t stop tweeting at you,_ Ellie’s sent him, _I don’t know what the hell is going on because we haven’t hung out in weeks but it seems important?_ Liam’s breath hitches, _Love you, can’t wait for Friday night!_

Liam taps open Twitter and goes to Niall’s profile.

 **Niall Horan** @NiallOfficial  
@Real_Liam_Payne follow me so I can DM you !  
11:55 PM – 16 May 2018

 **Niall Horan** @NiallOfficial  
@Real_Liam_Payne need to send you a DM  
12:09 AM – 17 May 2018

 **Niall Horan** @NiallOfficial  
@Real_Liam_Payne liam pls follow mate  
12:18 AM – 17 May 2018

 **Niall Horan** @NiallOfficial  
Buddie ! @Real_Liam_Payne Add me  
12:30 AM – 17 May 2018

 **Niall Horan** @NiallOfficial  
@Real_Liam_Payne I’m getting offended now .  
12:41 AM – 17 May 2018

Liam taps follow, his curiosity getting the better of him.

 **@NiallOfficial** mate, thanks for the follow, just really needed to DM ya

 **@Real_Liam_Payne** thats fine.. whats up?

 **@NiallOfficial** Look , I know you don’t want to hear it but Harry is a great lad . This has just been a feckin mess .

Liam doesn’t reply, his jaw clenching as a simmering anger floods through him. Anger’s not the best emotion but it’s _an_ emotion, and Liam will take it – he’ll take any fucking emotion he can get at this rate.

 **@NiallOfficial** He told me what happend . Back at Borderline mate . He remembers .

Liam fucking _knows_ Harry remembers, that’s the whole fucking _point_ of the last two _fucking_ weeks–

 **@NiallOfficial** Haz doesn’t just invite anyone back to his . He cares about you .

Liam blocks him in a fit of rage.

The _audacity_ of Harry to use Niall to deliver his own weak excuses... Liam’s _seething_ , even _Bake Off_ unable to calm him down like normal.

It’s like with that thought everything comes rushing back, and Liam realises he’s just been pushing it all away since that day he vomited up his intestines. He flushed everything down the toilet that day, but it didn’t get rid of it; not all of it, at least. It only exacerbated the whole bloody problem. It’s like Liam has a remote control in charge of his life and he pressed the pause button on the channel labelled _Emotions_.

Now it’s playing, and he can’t stop thinking about what happened over and over in his head. The acceptance, the way he admitted to all and sundry that they slept together; only to laugh about it, talk about Liam like he was a jealous groupie who got the wrong idea.

The insidious thoughts in his head suggest maybe that’s exactly what he is.

 _No,_ Liam seethes silently, jaw aching from the strain of clenching it so hard, _I’m a_ person.

A key rattles in a lock, and Liam turns to spit out something scathing about Louis’ no doubt drunk state when the door swings open to reveal the absolute last person Liam wants to see right now.

“Louis gave me a key,” Harry explains after a moment’s pause, closing the door softly behind him, “Said you were here.” His voice is soft and tentative, the latter totally unusual. There’s silence as Liam turns back to the television, hands gripping the edge of the seat cushion stubbornly. The hosts comment on someone’s poor time management.

“ _The Great British Bake Off_?” Harry asks as he steps further into the flat, and Liam closes his eyes, breathing steadily through his nose to stop the throbbing ache in his throat, the way his chest tightens up and his fists clench. Simply because Harry’s walked through his front door. “But you hate cooking shows.”

The reminder that Harry _knows_ is like a defibrillator to the chest – or, at least, how Liam imagines one might feel. It brings life to him for a mere second before he feels like his strings are cut, and then he’s just _tired_ , the anger sapped out of him in its wake.

“Yeah, well...” Liam trails off, opening his eyes to see one of the contestants forget to put the oven on, their cake not baking to many of the others’ amusement, “You love it, so...”

“Liam,” Harry whispers, his voice nearly cracking. Liam’s embarrassed. He’s so embarrassed. How can Harry just go on national radio and say they slept together eons ago, laugh about it like it’s a joke, like they’re a joke, like _Liam’s_ a joke? How can Harry know about five years ago and yet still treat Liam this way? It’s like every bad teen film ever, like every bully delivering the final blow to their human punching bag. Liam’s used to that, but _this?_ It’s on a whole other level, and there’s a voice in the back of his head that’s telling him this might be it: this might break him beyond repair.

The bullies might finally succeed.

“You know,” starts Liam, and there’s a dull rage inside him again as he stands from the couch, _Bake Off_ muted before he turns around to face Harry, “You may not think of that night the way I always have,” Liam steps around the couch, catching his eyes, “You might remember kissing and groping and _coming,_ ” He spits it out, ripping open memories of Harry’s red and parted mouth, his fluttering eyelashes, “And that’s fine. It really is.”

Harry’s eyes are searching Liam’s face, but all he feels is stony. There’s nothing left to feel, no emotion left to hope that Harry catches wind of.

“But you have no right,” He cuts his right hand through the air, jerky, his left still clenched, nails digging into his palm, “ _No right_ to treat it like a joke. I’m not–“ At this, Liam falters, his voice catching on itself as his hands tremble, “ _I’m not a fucking punchline._ ”

“Liam,” Harry rasps, stepping forward with an aborted movement to reach out for Liam. Liam shifts back, makes sure Harry can’t get his hands on him again, that he can’t hold on and never let go, once more giving Liam no moment’s peace. It’s not fair, not this time. He swallows thickly when Liam avoids him, inhaling shakily before his jaw tightens in anger. “It’s been two weeks–”

“Oh?” Liam interrupts, and he doesn’t recognise this person – not the one in front of him and not the one he’s become. The person in front of him is nothing like the one he fell in love with years ago, and the person he’s become is someone who probably won’t be able to love again. “And I suppose for you that’s enough time to get over this? I suppose you think I ought to have got over you not even twenty-four fucking hours after we slept together?”

Liam stalks forward, only feet from Harry now, chest heaving with his fire and rage and heartbreak.

“You can’t talk about–” His memories aren’t failing him, but he feels like they are... because the fact that Harry even said it at all is preposterous; the fact he left not even twelve hours later makes it unreal, something out of a fairy tale, “–about forever, and then _leave_.” Liam’s eyes sting, and he thinks he might be choking on whatever’s in his throat, “ _You left_.”

Harry rears back, like he’s offended at the thought, like Liam isn’t telling him exactly what he did – he’s probably used to getting away with it, probably breaks hearts every damn day. Liam’s been such an idiot, hoping for some kind of acknowledgement; hoping for kindness amongst all this cruelty.

Liam moves forward now, pushes into Harry’s chest as he grits out, “You fucking _left!_ ”

The rock star’s eyes are wide, his cheeks pale and his mouth red and raw with how much he’s probably bitten it. It shouldn’t surprise Liam, but it definitely angers him, that even now; even as Harry faces him and mercilessly claws into his heart, even as Harry stands tall and beautiful and cold–

Liam loves him. _He loves him._

 _Oh, God,_ he thinks, face crumpling as a fresh wave of agony sweeps through him.

 

***

 

**2013**

 

“I don’t really do this,” Harry admits quietly a while later, Liam’s left hand absently picking up curls and dropping them, watching them spring back as he pulls. Harry shifts, moving his head so it’s no longer resting on Liam’s chest; instead, he turns to face Liam on a propped up arm, eyes roving over his sleepy face, “I really don’t.”

Liam’s tired. Talking about this – about why he refuses to sleep because it’ll mean he’ll forget to touch Harry – is probably the last thing he wants to do. But Harry’s eyes are focused, his mouth tight with what Liam guesses are nerves.

That, more than anything else, calms him. If Harry’s nervous, it means he’s being truthful. No one’s nervous about faking vulnerability. At least not in Liam’s experience.

Liam’s left hand might be buried in Harry’s soft hair, the headscarf long gone somewhere in Harry’s living room, but his right comes up to brush at the angular cheekbones of the man in front of him.

 _He looks so young like this,_ Liam thinks, thumb grazing skin and moving down to rest in the dimple that forms near the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t even know how old you are.” Liam muses softly, letting his blunt nail scratch lightly at the dimple. Harry grins, bringing up his left hand to gently hold Liam’s wrist as he moves his head further into Liam’s hand.

“M’nineteen.” He mumbles into Liam’s palm, lips barely pressing at the flesh there before his teeth nibble teasingly.

Liam pulls away, trying not to giggle.

“Stop.” He whines playfully, but then pushes forward to kiss the younger man softly anyway, like an inevitable reward.

“Mmm,” Harry hums as he pulls away, lids opening slowly like a sleepy cat, “I love the way you kiss.”

“What?” Liam asks, feeling his face transform into the crinkly eyed smile people either love or hate, though it softens at the considering expression on Harry’s face, “It’s just a kiss.” The swooping feeling in his stomach says otherwise, but Liam doesn’t want to be so obvious so soon.

 _It’s so soon,_ he tries not to realise.

“But it’s _yours_.” Harry tells him, frown on his face as he leans into another kiss, this one deeper and longer but leading nowhere. It’s the kind of kiss Liam loves – kissing for the sake of kissing, no ending in sight and no goal to reach. It’s just... kissing.

The thing is, Liam knows exactly what Harry means. He knows what it means to kiss someone and love it because it’s them; love it even if they use too much teeth or it’s a little too wet, with slightly chapped lips; love it because that person could do anything and you’d love it – love _them._

But it’s easier right now to pretend he doesn’t know exactly what Harry means. That way, Liam can ease into this... whatever they have... and he can pretend that he’s an adult who falls in love slowly and not all at once.

“How old are you, then?” Harry retaliates after a thoughtful pause, bringing his hands underneath his chin as he rests it on Liam, gazing at him from under his eyelashes like some kind of unintentional seduction.

For some inexplicable reason the moment feels intimate, like Liam’s sharing a secret that only Harry will ever know, that only Harry will ever bother to ask about.

“Twenty.” He tells him in a whisper, left hand starting up its exploration of Harry’s curls again.

Harry stares at him for a moment before huffing with a smile, turning around once more to rest the back of his head where his hands just were, reassuming their initial position. Liam’s left hand moves from Harry’s hair down to his chest, tracing something unknown on his sternum as Harry’s own circles Liam’s wrist in a caress that’s like a lullaby, beckoning Liam into sleep.

“You’ll turn thirty before me,” states Harry, like it’s something to be embarrassed about, “M’gonna take the piss the whole time.”

He’s so casual about it, like there’s no question it’ll happen at all. If Liam were more awake, more inclined to possibly ruin this beautiful illusion Harry’s presented him with – essentially, if Liam were braver, he might say something.

Instead he dreams. And then he sleeps.

 

***

 

Liam’s content to bury further into the covers. It can’t be very late – there’s no alarm sounding, no bustling of his neighbours, no shower serenade from Gladys next door. By all accounts, Liam should have another hour at least before he feels too guilty to stay in bed and waste the day away.

When he squints open his eyes, though, the light shining on his face says differently.

“Ugh,” he groans, pushing his face into the pillow beneath him, breathing in the scent of coconut, unsweetened, before freezing a little.

He wasn’t drunk the night before, so his memory’s clear, distinct, and all too arousing.

Blood rushes south, and Liam’s aware enough to realise a few things at once: his stomach feels hard and tight, the hair below his bellybutton being pulled at the slightest movement; the light shining into his eyes means it’s actually much later than he initially thought, which is unusual for him; and, finally, that he is very much alone in someone else’s bed.

That puts a damper on the proceedings below, and the hard and tight feeling on his stomach sinks deeper, below the skin and into his very bones.

He lifts himself slowly, bringing up his knees to place beneath him, the sheets falling from his arse to pool around him. He’s left kneeling on the double bed, the light of day still shining in from the open curtain, and evidence of the night before caked on his stomach.

_I don’t–_

He can’t even finish the thought; the tightness is spreading into his chest, his breath coming a little short. The sheets are cold next to him, and Liam shifts to sit on the edge of the bed, covers thrown back in what looks like haste.

There’s a part of him that can’t believe it, that thinks of laughter and lingering kisses, of whispers and fingers carding through hair, a hand with a cross tattoo trailing across his stomach, slow and comfortable.

There’s the other part of him, though – the part that Liam is familiar with, the part that greets him like an old friend with a petty grudge; the part that knows this was never more than one night, never more than a shared experience even if it left Liam gasping for air, shaken, awed...

Liam lifts his head from his hands, looking to the bedside in askance. There’s nothing but a purple-haired girl staring back at him from a picture frame, her smile heart-achingly similar to the one that flashes across Liam’s mind, to the one that he’s unlikely to forget no matter how much he might wish to.

“Fuck,” Liam utters softly, clenching his jaw, “ _Fuck._ ”

He stands, limbs heavy still even when he knows they should be light, they should be desperate to get going, to run, to get away.

It’s a strange sort of irony, Liam feels, that Harry left so easily when Liam is struggling with the mere idea. That Harry spoke of romance, and wooing, and all the things he desired into the warm skin of Liam’s neck is a cruelty Liam’s never experienced, and suddenly his legs feel as light as a feather, blood rushing through them carrying adrenaline and a newfound urge to remember this very moment completely and utterly.

And he does. Liam moves; he grabs his boxers, his jeans, his henley. He pulls them all on, then ties up his boots slowly, taking his time to relish in the feeling but also allowing for that small flicker of hope to truly diminish with every tick of the clock. He makes sure his phone, wallet, and keys are in the right pockets, grabs his leather jacket, and leaves the empty flat.

It’s a strange sort of irony, then, that Liam leaves so easily when, years later, he can never truly forget. His memory’s trapped in that bedroom; trapped in the way the white cotton sheets moved against his skin, in the feeling of last night’s release itchy and uncomfortable on his stomach.

But most of all, it’s trapped in the realisation that Harry had provided no note, no number, and had instead taken every warm feeling he’d created the night before with him when he’d left Liam to see himself out.

 

***

 

**2018**

 

“What?” Harry chokes out suddenly, eyes wide and incredulous as Liam ignores the wetness of his own cheeks, “Liam, you _daft–_ ”

“Please don’t,” he pleads, turning away to wipe at his face, “Don’t act like–”

“ _Liam,_ ” Harry stresses, and pulls on his arm to turn him around, “Liam, Liam, Liam, Liam, Liam, Liam–” His hands frame Liam’s face, his eyes wild now that Liam can see them, “ _Liam_ –”

Liam squirms away, grimacing, stumbling backwards as his cheeks turn red, his hands clammy.

“How do you think it felt?” Liam shouts suddenly, and Harry rears back again, his eyes still a little wild, a little unhinged, “You were everywhere! You still are! I can’t turn a corner on Piccadilly without seeing your bloody face! And if there’s not a poster up, someone’s talking about you. And if they’re not talking about you, I’m hearing you through their headphones!” Liam shoves a hand into his hair, messing it up even more after their pseudo scuffle, “There’s no bloody escape.”

“And I suppose not hearing about you at all is better, is it?” Harry’s eyes flash, his demeanour transformed as he steps forward, voice low and dark, “You might have seen me everywhere, but you were _nowhere_ , Liam. I had to live with memory alone.”

“What are you on about?” Liam exclaims, gesturing harshly, “You’re the one who left! You’re the one who didn’t want– didn’t want to see me again.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that’s not true!” Harry near shouts, breathing heavily as he flings his arms out. The softness of his cable knit jumper contrasts with the hard lines of his clenched jaw, and Liam feels the traitorous hope he always used to cling to show itself again, pulling at Liam’s _everything_ , begging to be felt.

The flat is silent save for their breathing, chests rising shakily with every hesitant inhale.

“Liam,” Harry breathes out, coming closer. Liam allows it, simply for the fact that his ears are still ringing with the echo of ‘not true’, “I remember that night. I’ve _always_ remembered that night.”

“Okay,” Liam says flatly, frowning, his shoulders bunching up, “But you left, yeah? I get it; you didn’t know how to kick me out. So you left me alone to do it myself.”

“ _No,_ ” Harry stresses, eyes wild. His hands come up as if to take a hold of Liam’s shoulders but something on Liam’s face must tell him that’s a bad idea, “I left to get breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” Liam barks out a laugh, bitter and broken, “That’s a load of bullshit, Harry. Don’t lie to me to make me feel better.”

“Alright, then,” Harry says, short, his eyes hard and narrowed, “No lying. I woke up, thought you looked beautiful and wanted to surprise you with some croissants from my favourite bakery. Only, the line was longer than I thought – some sort of understaffing issue, I expect – and it took me nearly an hour. I thought – he’ll be sleeping the day away, it’s fine. By the time I got back you were gone,” His eyes flash, nostrils flaring a little, “No note. No number. Only a first name and a face.” Harry rubs at his forehead tiredly, slumping down suddenly. “I went back to that bloody bar I don’t know how many times, but it was like you’d never existed, Liam.”

Months of self-imposed isolation. Working, fighting with his friends, drinking. Liam did none of those things anywhere near The Borderline, and especially not on their open mic nights.

“Then you run into me at Beck’s bloody _Valentine’s Day_ party,” Harry exclaims, shaking his head as he laughs and looks up at Liam, his curls brushing his cheekbones, “And I thought – here he is. The one that got away.” His face darkens, a frown conquering his innocent awe. “And then you introduced yourself.”

“I thought,” Liam chokes out, his heart beating so hard it feels like it’s about to burst open, too hopeful to care about the mess it’ll make if it does, “I thought you didn’t recognise me. Maybe if I introduced myself, you’d remember. Then you told Nick we’d just met...”

“ _Jesus,_ ” Harry laughs, exhausted, “We’ve made a fuckin’ mess, Liam. And you showed up to coffee wearing my scarf!” His smile seems more genuine now, relief plain and clear on his face, “I couldn’t believe it.”

“What?” Liam asks, puzzled. Scarf? What scarf?

Harry’s hand comes up to cradle Liam’s left cheek, his thumb brushing over the stubble there, nail catching. His dimples are out in force now, and Liam almost shivers at the promise of it all, his heart ready and waiting for Harry to take it proper, to trade his in return. His brain’s not so optimistic, though, and he fights to stay focused.

“My scarf,” Harry says with an amazed look on his face, “You were wearing it when we met up for tea. Must’ve picked it up from my bedroom floor the day after we met.” He smiles wider, “You didn’t know? I looked for it for _months._ ”

Liam kisses him. He pushes forward and brushes his chapped lips against Harry’s, his brain giving up in that moment. Their noses brush, light and playful, and Harry grins into Liam’s lips, breaking their kiss.

“I’m still so mad at you,” Harry says, pulling Liam in by the waist, “For not replying to my texts.”

“Thought you just wanted in my pants, Harry.” Liam mutters, crushing their lips together again. Harry breaks away with a muffled sound, like he’s offended.

“Excuse me, Liam,” Harry frowns at Liam for a few seconds before his face clears, grin whole and unabashed on his face, “I _did_ want to get into your pants.”

Liam laughs, and it’s like that cleanses all of the sadness in his veins, all the anger that had settled deep in his bone marrow. Five years of anguish, of lost love, gone in the blink of an eye, in the breath between a laugh and a kiss as he almost doubles over – his head lands on Harry’s left shoulder and Liam’s crying with this, his stomach aching as he gasps, taking in as much oxygen as he can.

Harry’s left hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, his mouth pressing into the join of Liam’s neck and shoulder, breath hot and moist.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, but by the end Liam’s body is sagging under the weight of his exhaustion, coherent enough to say, “Bed.” and push Harry in that direction, dragging him down to lie beside him so they can both nod off.

Harry entwines their hands, bringing them to his lips.

“No leaving in the mornin’, yeah?” he whispers against their knuckles, and Liam manages to nod before he sinks into sleep, the feel of Harry burrowing into his chest age-old and welcome.

 

***

 

The sun’s shining in his eyes when Liam wakes, and he winces away from it, burying his head into the pillow beneath him to escape the light.

“Liam,” Harry pulls Liam’s lip away from his teeth like a curious child, “Liam, please wake up. I’m hungry.”

Liam groans, batting at the hand that retreats just as quick only to return once he gives up.

“Alrigh’,” Liam grumbles as best he can given his lip’s in the vice of Harry’s thumb and forefinger, “Stop it, babe.”

“I’ll start singing my songs.” Harry threatens, which is hardly a threat at all.

“I love your songs.” Liam mumbles, rubbing his face into the pillow again.

“I’ll sing _your_ songs, then,” Harry tells him, and Liam can feel his breath against his own lips, “[Your friends have shown a kink in the single life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q7aOWIFgIZQ),” He giggles against Liam’s mouth, “You've had too much to think, now you need a wife!”

Liam groans, opening his eyes and grabbing Harry’s wrists. He pitches himself up on his left elbow, pushing against Harry’s arms to hover over him, their hands resting either side of Harry’s curls, haphazardly tossed on the bed in the short scuffle.

“Steady as she goes,” Harry sings quietly, face gentle and serious as his eyes dart between Liam’s, “Steady as she goes...” He sings the backing singers in a slightly higher pitch, slowing down and completely trailing off when Liam leans down to catch his lips in a kiss, sour and tender.

“I thought this might’ve been a dream,” whispers Liam, “But then I tasted your morning breath, and this is _definitely_ not a dream.”

Harry’s face flicks from soft, to amused, to outraged in mere seconds. He pushes a laughing Liam off of him, scoffing in offense as he sits up.

“Morning breath, Liam,” He starts, twisting to look down at Liam on the bed, who’s holding his stomach to ease his giggles, eyes crinkled, “is perfectly normal. And you have it, too!”

Liam pulls him down roughly, kissing him again through feeble protests, hand on the back of Harry’s neck through his curls.

“Sorry,” Liam apologises upon breaking away, just far enough for Harry’s face to come into focus, to look into his green eyes and see understanding. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” Harry whispers, kissing Liam quick, “I’m unbelievably sorry.”

“What’s this, then?”

Liam snaps his head to his door, spitting out some of Harry’s curls when he turns _his_ head.

“Oh, sorry, Liam.” he apologises when he hears Liam’s spluttering, turning back to him to give a sheepish smile.

“S’fine, Haz.”

“Get out!” Louis screeches, stalking forward as if to grab a hold of Harry himself and haul him as far from Bethnal Green as he can.

“Lou!” exclaims Liam, pushing a hand out to stop him, “It’s fine, alright? It’s fine!”

“This wanker laughed at you, Liam,” Louis snarls, his hands balled into fists like he’s afraid he’ll scratch Harry’s face off if he doesn’t sink his nails into his palms, “So it’s not fine, and I’m going to dispose of his body in the Thames.”

Harry’s eyebrows raise, a gleeful expression on his face.

“Lou,” Liam says with a smile, moving Harry to the side so he can sit up properly and stand next to his flatmate, “We worked it out. He wasn’t–” Liam looks to Harry.

“I wasn’t, I swear.”

“He wasn’t laughing at me,” Liam reiterates, “We rather mucked everything up. It’s sorted.” He explains, gripping Louis’ shoulder and squeezing.

Louis narrows his eyes at Harry. There’s a tense moment where Liam feels like he’ll have to use his hold on Louis’ shoulder to keep him at bay, but it’s gone in the next, and Louis – though still glaring – simply gives one parting promise before he leaves.

“If you shit on him again, I really _will_ throw you in that disgusting river.”

Like always, he leaves like a whirlwind through the room, the both of them struck dumb in his absence.

“Well,” Harry says after a long silence. Liam looks to him, his smile growing at the cheeky one on Harry’s handsome face, “I’d say that went well.”

“Harry,” Liam begins abruptly, biting his lip through the sudden influx of nerves even though he _knows_ what will happen. He thinks, anyway. “Will you go on a date with me?”

Harry’s smile grows, slow and steady.

“Liam,” he begins similarly, pulling Liam down on top of him by his lapels, “I’ll go on several.”

 

***

 

“We have a special guest tonight,” Eleanor breathes into the mic. It may be two weeks into their small tour, but each night is as exhilarating as the next, the three of them overcome by the end of every song, “Courtesy of our very own boy from Wolverhampton. So get your dicks out and get your tits out for Harry Styles!”

The audience goes absolutely insane when Harry’s see-through floral shirt shows itself, Harry along for the ride. He’s grinning wide, hair long and curly and Liam just wants to put his hands in it – but that’s nothing new.

Liam starts up the beat, and Sophia’s bass joins him before Eleanor’s guitar starts with a twang.

“Find yourself a girl, and settle down,” Harry croons into the mic, pulling it with him so he can look behind to Liam, eyes glinting with mischief, “Live a simple life in a quiet town... steady as she goes!”

“Steady as she goes!” Liam echoes, grinning from behind his kit.

“Steady as she goes!” Harry points to him, swinging his hips. Liam shakes his head, trying not to laugh through his lyric.

“Steady as she goes!”

“So steady as she goes!” Harry yells, and the crowd screams so loud Liam feels like his ears are ringing.

They finish the set, the order of songs different tonight for this very reason. Harry sings only on the one song, his voice playful and perfect, Liam’s own meandering around it. Even still, his hair’s damp with sweat when Liam shoves his hands in it backstage once the venue’s clearing out, licking at Harry’s lips until he opens up, moaning at the contact.

“Don’t fuck where we can see.” Eleanor snarks as she passes, hand in hand with Sophia.

They’re stumbling over the threshold of Harry’s flat an hour later due to that comment. Harry’s dragging Liam by the hips backwards, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste.

“C’mon,” he mumbles against Liam’s lips, wet and wanting.

They strip once they get to Harry’s king sized bed, his sheets softer than anything Liam’s felt, his room spacious but homey.

“ _LPayneUpdates_ ,” Harry breathes out as Liam sucks on his neck, fingers pinching at his sensitive nipples, “Liam is currently in Harry Styles’ bed.” Liam gives a sharp bite to a tendon, and Harry moans long and low.

“I still can’t believe you followed me to Tesco’s,” Liam mutters, making his way down Harry’s chest to lick at his butterfly tattoo. “You’re something else.”

“You love it, though.” Harry chokes out at a particularly hard twist of Liam’s fingers, hand snapping out to blindly search for that pesky tube of lube.

“I do,” Liam says, prying the lube from Harry’s fingers and uncapping the tube, being generous with it when he sees the way Harry’s fidgeting, “And I love that you’re so obvious.”

Harry huffs, blowing hair out of his face, feeling impatient.

“Are you going to make love to me, Liam?” Harry retorts, bending his knees for Liam’s broad shoulders to fit between his thighs, “Or do I have to do everything myself?”

Liam’s hand gives a sharp twist on Harry’s dick, unforgiving and relentless. Harry chokes out a moan, squeezing his eyes shut against the feeling, his hips moving into Liam’s hand helplessly.

“That’s what I thought.” Liam says, entering Harry with a finger as he leans forward to kiss him, left hand diving into his curls and tugging.

Liam continues that way for a little while, knowing by the choked off curses and long moans that Harry makes that he’s enjoying it more than he’s getting impatient, bearing down on Liam’s hand when he’s three fingers deep and scissoring them, sweat pooling slightly in his collarbones.

Liam licks up the thin layer, biting at the skin as he goes, pulling on those curls again to make Harry shiver.

“I love you.” Harry breathes out against Liam’s lips once he reaches them, his eyes taking on a sudden clarity, no longer as pleasure-hazed. Liam stares at him, his mouth curling at the edges. He’s a vision like this, splayed out on the bed just for Liam, hair a tangled mess in a halo around his head. His eyes are glassy but focused, his lips plump and red. Liam wants to stare at him for days.

“I love you, too.” Liam replies, dropping a soft kiss onto those very lips, and then another when he can’t help himself.

Harry’s moaning those same words when Liam’s inside him, hard and deep. His hands grip at the headboard for only a minute or two before they’re anchoring themselves behind Liam’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss fast and dirty and everything the opposite of the way they’re making love.

And when they come, one after the other, Harry’s breathing those words out against Liam’s stinging lips, the aftermath of many bites, hard and sharp.

When they lie in that same bed, long ago recovered but still awake; Harry’s head on Liam’s chest and Liam’s hand in his hair and talking about nothing, Liam thinks to himself. He thinks that this future of his may have started slow – slow and terrible and agonising – but if it means he can lie here now and know he’ll wake up to Harry’s face tomorrow, and the next day, and the next...

“I’m still going to take the piss,” slurs Harry, sleepy and sated, “When you hit thirty and I’m still a sprightly twenty-nine.”

“Alright, Haz,” Liam placates him, “You do that for five months.”

“I will,” he murmurs, sleep taking him bit by bit, steady as anything, “And you can’t stop me...”

Liam smiles.

“I won’t,” he whispers, but Harry’s asleep.

“I won’t.” He tells himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what a crazy and fast ride this has been! How did I write over 30k in two days... yikes! I hope all of you liked it. I've made the album playlist for Hush [here](http://8tracks.com/violentoversight/rebellion); Harry's [first album](https://68.media.tumblr.com/0cd8d0865c9706ada0e2f911cdc3ca81/tumblr_inline_ojmmohwK9b1se8i5g_540.png) cover, and [his second](https://68.media.tumblr.com/21f4c6c9011841a4f9a604a718840af3/tumblr_ojmmmzt14u1tz8552o2_500.png).
> 
> Thank you once again to the dear [Ivana](http://helladonut.tumblr.com); without her constant screaming over my excerpts, this fic would never have made it to the posting stage. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think in the comments. I'm absolutely desperate for feedback on my writing. Constructive criticism is always welcome. :) You can find me on tumblr at [rainbowliam](http://rainbowliam.tumblr.com).


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